The House Sitter

by Jill Barry

  “Yes, well, good luck with your house sale. We should make a move, Marcia.” Mr Hunt fidgeted with his key ring.

  “Somewhere else lined up?” Suzanne forced a bright, enquiring look onto her face.

  “Yes, we’ve an appointment to view River Cottage, just outside Knightly. We noticed the turning as we came through. We may as well get on our way, I suppose.”

  “I’m sorry you feel like this. All the best with your house hunting.” Eddie rose as the couple got to their feet, Mr Hunt shaking his head.

  Suzanne nodded to each of the couple in turn. “Goodbye, both,” she said. “I really can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  Left alone, she surveyed the abandoned porcelain mugs. The couple hadn’t even lingered long enough to finish their coffees.

  “What kind of a sick bastard would do such a thing?” For Eddie’s benefit, Ruth hoped her eyes glittered with anger. “I’m sorry to use that kind of language but those were your very first viewers and that despicable thing had to happen!”

  “I’m glad you found time to call round, my dear. Suzanne’s still lying down. I’ll give her a shout in a minute.”

  “Eddie, please don’t disturb her on my account. She must be devastated.”

  “To be honest, I’m glad she’s resting. I don’t want her getting worked up over this. It has to be a one off, surely? But why pick on Mr and Mrs Hunt? Talk about bad timing.”

  Ruth crossed one long leg over the other, remembering to wince before moving her leg back again. She sat, both feet neatly on the carpet, gazing out at the garden. Oh, but this was fun.

  “Knee a problem? This dreary weather’s enough of a pain as it is.”

  “It’s just my arthritis playing up again.” Ruth hesitated. “I was just thinking whoever did that to the Hunts couldn’t possibly have known they had an appointment to view in the village. So, do you think it could simply have been Porsche envy? A couple of kids wandering around with nothing better to do?”

  “Wandering from where? The village youngsters are all in school. And how many kids roam around with a bag of eggs and shit – sorry, dung – looking to find someone to sling it at.” He shuddered. “The muck was stuffed into one of those fine mesh bags the supermarkets use. As soon as it hit the windscreen, the eggs smashed. And you know what? In my opinion, there’s only one person I can think of cussed enough to do such a mindless bloody thing.”

  Ruth frowned. “Surely you don’t suspect someone from the village?”

  “How about Philip fecking Sartin?”

  She stiffened, caught unawares but delighted by the supposition. “Really, Eddie? Surely Phil wouldn’t do something like that? He’s scruffy, yes, and a bit surly at times but I wouldn’t have put him down as spiteful and aggressive.”

  Eddie nibbled at a hangnail. “Now it’s me should be minding my language. I’m sorry. But your trouble is, you see the best in everyone, Ruth. He’s never liked us. The fellow finds it hard to pass the time of day if our paths cross. That indicates a certain mind set, given we bought the house in good faith without a clue Sartin had been trying for years to get his hands on the original parcel of land.”

  “I’d forgotten that old chestnut. But if that were so, you’d think he’d be cheering you on. Glad to see you go.” She hesitated. “Though he’d probably be the only one in the village. Everyone I’ve spoken to thinks it’s a shame you’re leaving. I do think you should know that, Eddie.”

  Eddie’s face softened. “That’s good to hear. Thank you, Ruth. I like to think we’ve fitted in. Suzanne’s always lent a hand with the kids’ events. Brought shopping back for people if they haven’t been able to get out. You know the kind of thing.”

  “Of course. Especially with poor old Mrs Frame. I suppose she’ll rely on me for lifts and errands once you two leave.” Ruth paused a few beats and sighed.

  He spread his hands. “I don’t know what else to say. We’ve made our decision. Anyway, someone at the agency rang to say we have another viewing tomorrow at ten o’clock. A bloke on his own this time.”

  “I’m sure it’ll all go smoothly. Today’s incident must have been an unfortunate coincidence. How could the vandal or vandals possibly have known prospective house purchasers were due at that exact moment?”

  “But can you remember such a thing happening in the village before?”

  “I honestly think it must have been a couple of lads from outside of Three Roads. Maybe they rode here on their bikes. A vehicle coming around that bend has to be moving very slowly and therefore provides a very satisfactory target for teenagers with time on their hands.”

  “Heaven help us all if that’s the kind of idiot this country’s producing nowadays. They must have brought the eggs with them, even if they collected the dung locally. Oh, what’s the use! I expect you’re right, my dear. Is it wine o’clock yet?”

  Bethan Harley put down the telephone and frowned. She clicked on the page containing The Sugar House’s particulars and scanned the main photograph before kick-starting the slide show. She’d been delighted to acquire the Deacons’ house for her list but, so far, feedback from punters remained less than enthusiastic. And that was before anyone had even completed a proper viewing.

  She pulled up the database and read the notes already logged by one of her colleagues. Bradley and Valerie Childs had come into the office but exchanged glances and rejected the suggestion that they view The Sugar House, even though it fitted their criteria like a surgical glove and they’d already visited somewhere similar, though much closer to Llanbrenin Wells. When coaxed to explain their apparent aversion to the property at Three Roads, they claimed they’d heard one or two disturbing things about the location. This had resulted in a mutual decision to give this particular house a miss.

  When asked the nature of the information, Mr Childs repeated the story they’d heard from a charming lady called Delyth, who was also looking at properties for sale in the area. In fact, while they were browsing particulars in the BCB office window, she’d fallen into conversation with them and revealed some fascinating if gruesome facts about Three Roads, over a pot of tea and a plate of cracking Welsh cakes, to quote Mr Childs.

  Bethan could do without negative input acquired so she made a mental note to make discreet inquiries, in case the woman lived locally and had an axe to grind. One never knew.

  A second couple, Robert and Marcia Hunt, had reported a disturbing road-related incident while approaching the property with intent to view by appointment. Bethan’s admin assistant had logged the occurrence as an unexplained and unprovoked attack by person or persons unknown. Mr and Mrs Hunt confirmed the Deacons couldn’t have been more charming, and appeared devastated that such a thing could happen on their patch, but the experience had soured the Hunts’ eagerness to view and they’d gone off to their next appointment, having ventured no further than the hallway and kitchen of The Sugar House.

  There was no viewing booked for today but Bethan had a ten o’clock appointment for the following morning, with a Mr Kirby. She walked through to the outer office where an administrator sat typing up a new set of particulars.

  “Chris, you know Three Roads pretty well, don’t you? Am I right in thinking an aunt of yours lives there?”

  Chris nodded and pulled out her earpiece. “My aunt lives just outside the village. Why?”

  “Has she ever mentioned some rumour about a murderer being buried on the land where The Sugar House stands? It seems the villagers – bear in mind we’re going back decades here – were furious over the fact that this criminal had been buried in the churchyard.”

  “I don’t recollect her ever mentioning anything like that. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It may be your aunt knows nothing about it. Apparently, a little gang of locals took it upon themselves to exhume the body a couple of days after the burial.”

  Chris shuddered. “Ugh.”

  “Yes, well they apparently chose to rebury the coffin in a patch of unused land at the edge of
the village. A long time afterwards, this land was bought by someone who obtained planning permission and built the original Sugar House.”

  “Would you like me to ring my aunt and make some discreet inquiries?”

  Bethan hesitated. “Thanks, Chris but maybe it’s best to leave things as they are for now. Put it down to bad luck the first potential viewers happened to get talking to someone who knows the village’s history. To keep it in perspective, not everyone would be bothered about some long-gone incident like that.”

  “The couple who went to view yesterday seemed really shaken by that awful attack. I’d say they were more concerned about what might have happened rather than what actually did happen.”

  “Yeah. You can’t do much about that kind of mind set but I think we can all understand how Mr and Mrs Hunt felt. It certainly hasn’t been the best of starts for the Deacons with BCB.”

  “It’s hardly our fault, Bethan.”

  “No, but Three Roads is the kind of place that will attract only a certain type of property buyer. Not only is the village five miles from the nearest town, it’s on the edge of nowhere. So, we start at a disadvantage.”

  “Come on, it’s not like you to sound so negative. On the plus side, the village sits in the midst of beautiful countryside, with stunning view and walks. That waterfall’s straight out of Tolkien. The Sugar House ticks more than one very important box for any property buyer looking for a peaceful lifestyle.”

  “You’re sounding like an estate agent.” Bethan grinned. “I mustn’t let myself brood. But tomorrow morning I’ll make sure I drive over to Three Roads for ten o’clock so I can be there for our Mr Kirby. I can go straight on afterwards to my eleven o’clock valuation. It won’t take me long from the village.”

  “I’ll log it in the diary.” Chris adjusted her earpiece. “Sure you don’t want me to quiz my aunt about long ago dirty deeds?”

  “Positive. Not yet, anyway.”

  Bethan headed back to her office. Something didn’t seem right. And if someone out there had it in for the Deacons, what on earth could their motive be?

  Chapter Six

  “Now, let me get this straight. What you’re saying, Ruth Morgan, is you want me to leave my tractor so it’s blocking the entrance to your mates’ driveway?”

  “It’s for their own good, Phil. Suzanne Deacon’s health is delicate to say the least and moving house at her time of life is the last thing she needs. They’ve made a hasty, ill-conceived decision and someone has to help them see the error of their ways.”

  Phil Sartin scratched the nape of his neck where his greasy, grey hair straggled over the collar of his ancient waterproof jacket. “Husband’s thick as pig shit if you ask me. I’m entitled to leave my own vehicles on my own land but it hadn’t occurred to him to check out the small print when he bought that gin palace of his.”

  “We both know the Deacons have right of way to drive in and out of their gateway, Phil.”

  He shook his head. “Can’t abide these legal shenanigans.”

  Ruth nodded. “I remember being asked to negotiate with you that time Suzanne was desperate to get out of the driveway for a hairdresser’s appointment in Knightly.”

  “Hair-do? You’d have thought the woman was about to drop a calf, the bloomin’ fuss she made.”

  Ruth noted the gleam of satisfaction in the farmer’s eyes. “They hadn’t been in the village very long and himself was doing his nut. I got a phone call asking me to sweet talk you into moving your old van from their gateway.”

  Phil Sartin smirked. “Now boot’s on t’other foot. Those two hardly give me the time of day, not that I lose any sleep over it.” He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Right then, if that’s what you want me to do, I’ll drive the tractor over from my field nice and early tomorrow then nip back to my place and get off to market like I planned.”

  “That sounds perfect. I can assure you I’m acting in everyone’s best interests. No one will come to any harm.”

  He leered at her. “And what’s in it for me apart from those scones you brought? I’ve never forgot that nice shoulder massage you gave me a while back.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t ask for a fee when I help you complete your tax return, do I?”

  “No, I can’t say as you does.”

  “And when you give me eggs or apples, you know you’ll get fresh veggies or a jar of something nice in return?”

  His rasping chuckle introduced a cough and a spit on the ground. “What if the husband rings the police? I don’t want to get locked up, Missus. Don’t you go forgettin’ I’ve got stock to think about and no bugger to call on.”

  Ruth shook her head. “It’s a civil matter, Phil. The police can’t arrest you, and as you say, you own the land. The Deacons are entitled to drive to and fro to access the main road, so if you decide to prevent them from doing that, of course they’ll kick up.”

  “I doubt I’ll get back much before four, tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That’s perfect. I’ll make sure the Deacons don’t stir things with the police. I can understand you don’t want to waste time being lectured by a toddler with a clipboard.” She wondered if she should have said iPad but decided Phil Sartin probably wouldn’t understand.

  “You fancy a cup of tea before you go back, Missus? I was just about to put the kettle on when you knocked.”

  Ruth’s gaze took in the stained crockery stacked on the draining board. The stray teabags scattered on the tatty oilcloth covering the table. Phil Sartin’s decrepit farmhouse kitchen differed from the one in The Sugar House as a homemade go-cart contrasted with a state-of-the-art sports car.

  “No thanks, Phil. I have paperwork to finish so I must get back. I enjoy my little job, as you know.”

  “And you’ll be around in the morning? Wouldn’t mind betting your mates will be straight on to you to sort their problem out this time too.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  “Oh yes. I’ll be very much around. But you won’t be. You have a good time at market. Thursday’s sheep day, isn’t it?”

  “Aye. I’ll need to be away early with the trailer.”

  “Perfect.” Ruth stood up. “I’ll see myself out.”

  Eddie opened one eye and peered at the alarm clock. It was only seven o’clock and he knew something had disturbed him. His wife still slumbered beside him as full consciousness arrived and he realised the sound he heard was the cough and splutter of a tractor engine firing up. Sartin must be making an early start, driving his dilapidated bit of kit up the track and down the main road the short distance to his biggest field.

  Eddie focused on what he was doing that day. They had someone coming to view the house at ten o’clock. That sexy sales negotiator had phoned from BCB to say she’d be turning up too. He was just trying to decide whether that would be a good thing or not when he realised the rasping engine noise had ceased. Abruptly. He wouldn’t go back to sleep now, so he slid carefully from beneath the duvet and crept across the thick pile carpet to the window to check on the weather. Peering around pleated peach silk drapes, he saw an ancient Ford tractor parked slap bang in front of his gateway.

  The silly old sod must have broken down. Eddie scratched his chest. Still, this next house hunter wasn’t due to arrive for well over three hours. Everything would be fine. Suzanne had been jittery ever since that couple got their Porsche showered with crud, and couldn’t wait to get away fast enough. Today, he’d awoken feeling things would be very different and he didn’t want his wife agitated any more than she already was.

  He grabbed his robe, pushed his feet into slippers and left Suzanne still sleeping. He’d known the time when he’d have slipped back into bed and begun making love to her. She’d have opened her eyes and protested but without really meaning it. Nowadays – best if he fired up the coffee machine. Eddie still missed having a morning paper shoved through his letterbox but it was a small price to pay for living somewhere so tranquil. At least they had a halfway decent Broadban
d connection these days.

  If he spotted the farmer returning to move his bag of tricks, Eddie decided he might put his head out of the door and call a friendly good morning. So, if a prospective buyer asked how he got on with his neighbours, he could quite legitimately give a positive response.

  But when Suzanne arrived in the kitchen, showered, dressed, and immaculate as always, her face told her husband she was in no mood for pleasantries.

  “Have you noticed what’s blocking our gateway? I didn’t realise until I drew our bedroom curtains.” She slapped both hands palm down on the table so violently that Eddie’s fingers slid on the laptop’s keyboard and catapulted him on to the wrong page of the online newspaper he was browsing.

  “Steady on, love. Yes, I know the score but it’s not even eight o’clock yet. It’s not as though we need to get off out in a hurry.”

  “Eddie. Watch my lips. We have someone coming to look at the house in two hours’ time and currently they’ll be unable to park anywhere but on the track. That means they have to reverse on to the main road afterwards. You’re still in your dressing gown. Would you like me to go and enquire why there’s a bloody great tractor sitting outside our property?”

  Eddie jumped up. Suzanne rarely swore.

  “Two minutes to get my kit on, then I’ll give old Sartin a knock. You pour yourself a coffee and make us some toast. I’ll have a couple of boiled eggs as well, please.” Eddie almost joked about not making them too runny but thought better of it, given his wife’s present mood.

  He got to his feet and plonked a kiss on her cheek before he headed upstairs. “I’ll see what that old devil’s playing at but I wouldn’t be surprised to find someone turn up to sort things out. Sartin probably sloped off home to ring the agricultural engineers. He’s probably sitting in his kitchen now, slurping tea and rolling one of those disgusting cigarettes of his.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  “See you in a bit. And keep your pecker up, love.”