The House Sitter

by Jill Barry

  Suzanne could become quite tetchy sometimes. In fact, she’d been more than a little offhand with Ruth on the odd occasion. That would be down to tension. Possibly Eddie had talked his wife into agreeing to his plan and she didn’t feel one hundred per cent happy about it and didn’t dare speak up. Suzanne had confided in Ruth about her strict upbringing and how fortunate the couple were that she possessed the guile and strength of character to address this problem on their behalf.

  How strange that by instigating the situations she already had, Ruth felt she’d jumped right back into the couple’s good books. The sensation of control gave her a physical jolt. She opened the lid of the silver biscuit barrel on the dressing table to discover Suzanne had stocked it with her favourite shortbread. Tea making equipment stood ready. All she needed do was remember to bring a jug of milk upstairs.

  On a whim, she left the room and tried turning the doorknob of the master bedroom. Sure enough, Eddie hadn’t locked it though he must have gritted his teeth at the thought of his house sitter roaming where she wished. She walked over to the big dressing table in front of the window and opened the drawer where she knew Suzanne kept her less precious pieces of jewellery.

  Ruth picked up a gemstone necklace, held the string of amethyst and turquoise chunks against her dark blue blouse and nodded with satisfaction. She deserved the pleasure of pretty trifles like this. Fastening the necklace around her neck, she admired her reflection in the mirror before crossing to the door accessing the small balcony. She turned the key and stepped outside; again enjoying the feeling of empowerment this action afforded her.

  The distant hills formed a purple brown backdrop to a swathe of conifers so dark she longed to drape a string of glittering fairy lights over it. This frivolous thought failed to bring another smile to her face, since her solitary childhood hadn’t included many festive moments. On becoming an orphan at age fourteen, she’d been brought up by the austere aunt who’d bequeathed Rock Cottage to her only niece. Until she reached school leaving age, she was a boarding-school pupil who couldn’t wait to be allowed to make her own decisions.

  Ruth’s gaze switched to the nearby river, which, always in a hurry to join up with its big sister further down the valley, produced a comforting whooshing sound. She watched a red kite swoop then plummet into Phil Sartin’s field before flying off again in the direction of the military ranges. A faint rattle of artillery peppered the breeze.

  She turned back into the bedroom and closed the balcony door. She was downstairs and heading for the utility room when the phone rang. She hurried to pick up the kitchen extension.

  “Ruth Morgan speaking.”

  “This is Bethan Harley, Mrs Morgan.”

  “It’s Ms, actually. I thought your office didn’t open until nine.”

  “I’m so sorry if I’ve disturbed you. The thing is, Ms Morgan, I have a couple with me who’d very much like to view The Sugar House. I know Mr and Mrs Deacon have gone away and I just wanted to advise you I’d like to bring these people over now.”

  “You mean immediately?”

  “Well, yes. I’m at Llanbrenin Wells this morning so we’ll take about forty minutes to get to you.”

  “It’s extremely short notice,” Ruth calculated how many more hours might be necessary before the dead field mouse reached maximum putrefaction point.

  “Mr Deacon assured me any time would be all right but as his dog was in the house, it was best to check you were around in case Sparkles became uneasy with strangers walking in.”

  “Yes, of course. Look, may I call you back, Ms Harley?”

  “It’s Mrs. Actually.” Bethan’s tone was pleasant.

  Ruth waited a few beats. Why not keep the bitch on the hook? All she cared about was her commission.

  “You’ll appreciate I have potential clients to think of,” said Bethan. “We don’t want to frighten them away, do we?”

  Ruth’s heart skipped a beat. Surely this irritating woman couldn’t possibly suspect something? She gathered her wits.

  “I’ll have to check with the person I’m planning to visit and ring you back in a very few minutes. I have your number here.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, Ms Morgan.”

  Ruth put down the phone and crossed the kitchen to the hallway. Outside the door to the downstairs facilities she stooped and sniffed. A faint yet musty odour met her nostrils. She pushed on the handle to open the door a crack and almost gagged. Hastily she closed it again and returned to the kitchen, hardly able to contain her glee. She counted to fifty. Slowly. Picked up the receiver and punched in the number on the business card left by Eddie.

  A cheerful receptionist answered. “Briggs, Caldwell and Balls. May I help you?”

  “This is Ruth Morgan ringing from The Sugar House. Would you be kind enough to tell Mrs Harley I’ve been able to change my plans and that she may drive over with her clients whenever she wishes?”

  Ruth replaced the receiver and debated whether to brew coffee or not, despite feeling disdain for so called house whisperers who recommended grinding coffee beans and creating tantalising aromas of newly baked cookies and such nonsense. Yet, the idea contained a certain irresistible irony, in view of what Ruth knew was about to happen. She moved across to the fancy machine and decided, given Eddie had never shown her how to unleash the monster, to leave well alone.

  But might the brewing of coffee send a potent message regarding Ruth’s good nature and desire to help her friends sell their house? She reached for the big cafetière. The Deacons favoured a particularly muscular type of coffee. Ruth took the Fortnum and Mason’s container from the fridge, shovelled beans into the grinder and blitzed them while she counted to the requisite number before tipping the dense powder into the cafetière. It was a little early to make this brew, but if her plan worked as she hoped, the trio of visitors was hardly likely to sit around making polite conversation.

  Chapter Nine

  Bethan Harley drove out of her parking space with Mr Salani in the passenger seat and his delightful wife seated in the rear. The pair chatted almost incessantly but she’d taken to them as soon as they pushed open the door at twenty minutes to nine, each of them looking as if they really wanted to get on with life. Now, Bethan listened as she joined the trickle of traffic driving through the town.

  “We’re on a touring holiday for a week, with no particular itinerary. We love the lack of rush and bustle you enjoy in these parts,” said Mr Salani. “At home, it’s nothing but roaring engines and emergency sirens blaring down the main street.”

  “You’ll find total tranquillity once we get closer to Three Roads.”

  “That’s what we’re hoping,” said his wife. “To discover a haven for this next stage of our lives now our children are all over the world.”

  “In case you’re wondering, that actually means only three of them out there!” Mr Salani chuckled.

  “I’m trying to explain to Bethan how we feel the time has come for us to do our own thing. Your art – my music.”

  “We’re both doctors,” said Mr Salani. “Consultants with retirement just around the corner.”

  “You obviously live busy lives,” said Bethan.

  “Yes, we’ve become disenchanted with commuting,” said Mrs Sarani. “But if we can find the right property, when we both have a free weekend, we’ll be able to escape to our safe haven until we finish work next year for good.”

  “I hope I can help make your dream come true,” said Bethan. “The Sugar House is gorgeous. You’ll love the way the village nestles in a little valley although it’s high above sea level. There aren’t many houses, but the nearest town, which we’ll drive through on the way, is only five miles from Three Roads.”

  “We checked out your website last night and both of us liked the look of this property. It was a spur of the moment decision but sometimes these things are meant to be.”

  “I’m delighted you called at the office. These vendors are away, in fact, but they’ve asked a friend
to house and dog sit. I hope you don’t mind dogs? This one’s a very placid old Labrador but I’m sure she can be put outside if you prefer.”

  “We have no problem with dogs. In fact, we might consider having one of our own later on when work isn’t an issue.”

  “Provided there are decent kennels not too far away,” his wife suggested.

  “I know for a fact there are,” said Bethan. “But the Deacons prefer to use this friend of theirs, because the animal is so used to her. She’s also keeping an eye on the house of course. Not that there’s a high crime rate in this area.”

  “Horse theft and turnip swiping maybe?”

  “Perhaps once in a decade, Mr Sarani, if I’m pressed to answer that.” Bethan glanced sideways at him. “You’ll find Powys a very different county from Leicestershire. Three Roads has a character of its own which doesn’t suit some people but from what you’ve told me, it offers everything you’re looking for.”

  “We realise incomers sometimes find it difficult to be accepted.”

  “I’m pleased to say Mr and Mrs Deacon would tell you otherwise, Mr Sarani.”

  “That’s good. We wondered about The Sugar House’s name? We think it sounds rather intriguing.”

  “It’s quite a quirky story.” Bethan halted at the traffic lights on the edge of Knightly. “During the second world war, the owner of the house was operating a nice little business in black market goods. I don’t know the whys and wherefores but sugar was obviously one of the main attractions. Goodness knows how this person got hold of an item in such short supply, but they must have had a contact and, according to the vendors, the locals christened the house and the name stuck.”

  “Fascinating,” said Mrs Salani. “We both prefer to live in a house that comes with its own personality.”

  After Bethan rang the bell, Ruth deliberately took so much time to limp from the kitchen that the estate agent, clutching the spare key Eddie had provided, was left aiming it at the house sitter’s throat when the door finally opened.

  “Oh dear, I’m so sorry to keep you all waiting.” Ruth made her voice drip honey as her gaze took in the elegant Asian couple. “I was just putting the dog outside in her play area and I daren’t hurry, with my leg playing up as it is.”

  “Oh, poor you. But we must go and visit the dog, if that’s all right?” Mrs Sarani held out her hand. “It’s so kind of you to house sit for your friends.”

  “I couldn’t stand by and let them put Sparkles into kennels.” Ruth stood back to allow the visitors entry. At once her mouth dried. The third person in the party was unmistakeably the trouser-suited woman leaving the estate agency while Ruth stood outside with Brad and Valerie, the couple who’d treated her to tea in exchange for local information. Despite the fact that Ruth had adopted a disguise, she realised how shrewd she’d been to avoid locking gazes with the sales negotiator now once again close by.

  She held her nerve. “Good Morning. I hope you enjoy looking around The Sugar House.” She gestured towards the half-open door at the end of the hallway. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need to know anything. You’re very welcome to a cup of coffee if you wish.”

  “Most kind,” murmured Mr Sarani, extending his hand to shake hers. “I’m afraid I’ve already exceeded my caffeine allowance this morning. The Queensbridge serves such a particularly excellent breakfast; I’m looking forward to tonight’s dinner menu already. But how about you two ladies?”

  His wife shook her head.

  “Many thanks, Ms Morgan,” said Bethan. “The coffee smells delicious but I think we’ll start with the ground floor, make our way upstairs then explore the garden.”

  “As you wish. I’ll leave you to it.” Ruth stepped away.

  “The conservatory leads off the drawing room,” said Bethan, leading her clients from the hallway. “It faces south and the view of the garden is stunning. Mrs Deacon has taken care to plant the right kind of shrubs for the local soil and weather conditions.”

  “Should we be concerned about those conditions?”

  “Not at all, Mr Salani. There can be early frosts in these parts so what I meant was, there’s nothing planted in the garden that can’t cope with the elements. Mr Deacon told me his wife’s rhododendron hedge attracts photographers and artists when it’s in full bloom.”

  “There you are my love, an opportunity to offer cream teas on the front lawn.”

  Ruth heard the sales patter as she sat at the kitchen table, leafing through one of Suzanne’s many glossy-jacketed cookery books. She listened for every movement as the sales negotiator took the couple through the rooms. Heard the murmur of voices and the laugh out loud moment following what had to be some stupid quip of the Harley woman.

  When Bethan led the couple into the kitchen, she found Ruth on her feet, smiling a welcome. “I’m so jealous of Mr and Mrs Deacon’s domestic domain. I make vast quantities of chutney and jam when my soft fruit’s in season and I’d kill for all this workspace.”

  “How talented you are.” Mrs Sarani turned to her husband. “You see, Jalil? If we buy this house, we can be customers of Ms Morgan. . . if she will allow us.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” Ruth sat down again. “There’s a walk-in pantry next door to the utility room. Another thing I admire.”

  “Yes. Thank you,” said Bethan. She turned to the couple. “Do feel free to open doors.”

  “I don’t like peering into people’s cupboards. I can tell everything’s pristine but I will take a look at the utility room, if I may.”

  “Take all the time you need, Mrs Sarani.”

  Mr Sarani beamed and followed his wife.

  Bethan stood in silence.

  “I do apologise, Mrs Harley,” said Ruth. “In my haste to tidy my bedroom and get the coffee on, I forgot to check the downstairs cloakroom. Should I slip across now and check there’s a clean towel and so on?”

  “Please don’t concern yourself, Ms Morgan. From what I’ve seen, Mrs Deacon will have thought of everything. I can’t remember ever before arriving to carry out a valuation and finding a house so spotless and so beautifully appointed.”

  Ruth beamed. “What a wonderful thing to say. I shall make a point of telling Suzanne when we speak later. I’ve promised to ring each evening and tell her how Sparkles and I are doing.”

  This didn’t feel right. Bethan shook her head. “Ms Morgan, I think I should warn you Mr Deacon has asked me not to give any feedback about the house until he and his wife return. He’s concerned that she shouldn’t be bothered with what’s happening back here. In my experience, sometimes prospective purchasers enthuse about a property when they’re viewing it, but contrary to the vendors’ hopes, turn around afterwards and find a reason not to make an offer.”

  Ruth sighed. “I think, as her friend, I’m the best judge of what Mrs Deacon may or may not wish to hear.”

  “Fine. I’ll wait in the hallway.” Bethan turned on her heel and stepped out of the kitchen.

  How she wished she could dispose of Ruth Morgan as easily as Ms Morgan had dealt with that dear old dog who’d been absolutely fine on first acquaintance and endeared herself by escorting Bethan back to her car and resting her sleek head on her knee, anticipating a pat, when Bethan sat in the driving seat.

  But this awful woman who called herself the Deacons’ friend, came over as a cold, controlling piece of work. Worst of all was the way she acted as though she owned the house. Her expression had turned positively hostile when she lectured Bethan. What was her problem? She shouldn’t let the woman get to her, yet. . . Inwardly seething, Bethan puffed air through her lips and did her best to think charitable thoughts.

  Mrs Sarani reappeared, her husband in her wake. “Sorry to hold you up. We were peering through the window at the dog.”

  “Sparkles is a sweetie and you can meet her shortly. Shall we take a look at the downstairs cloakroom before going upstairs?”

  Bethan crossed the hallway, ready to grasp the cloakroom door handle. She pu
lled open the door only to recoil, gasping, as the sickening stench of decay hit her nostrils. She slammed the door shut again and whirled around, horrified.

  “What is it?” Mr Sarani stepped forward.

  Bethan swallowed hard, having to call up every ounce of her professionalism, in an effort not to gag. “I don’t know, sir, but whatever it is, I’m sure it can be dealt with. Why don’t you and your wife go on upstairs and I’ll ask the house sitter to investigate. It might be the cloakroom window’s open and the farmer’s been spreading slurry in the field or something like that.”

  Mr Sarani laughed. “The joys of country living! Yes, I caught a whiff but such pungent smells are far preferable to exhaust fumes, believe me. I’m sure the cloakroom facilities are absolutely fine. Like everything else we’ve seen so far.”

  The moment Bethan walked back inside the kitchen, she knew Ruth was up to something. She looked for some physical indication of mischief-making but the woman’s face appeared expressionless. Too much so. She’d poured herself a coffee and sat facing the door.

  “Is everything all right?” She looked expectantly at Bethan.

  “I’m afraid it’s everything but all right. You mentioned not having checked the cloakroom. It seems odd I should open the door to be met by such a disgusting smell.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Ruth remained seated. She frowned. “As I’ve already told you, I didn’t even open the cloakroom door when I arrived earlier.”

  “I heard exactly what you said.” Bethan locked gazes with Ruth. “And I can’t imagine how you can remain so calm, when that lovely couple are upstairs looking around, and will come down wondering why they’re not being shown the facilities. I doubt they’ll bother viewing the garden once they’re knocked off their feet by that unbelievable stench! Once you’ve experienced it, I think you’ll agree.”

  Bethan watched the other woman raise her left hand. Watched her long fingers travel to the base of her neck. She heard the nervous sound of Ruth Morgan clearing her throat. At once something stirred in her memory. She still retained a vague picture of Brad and Valerie Childs in her mind’s eye. She remembered giving the couple a swift glance that morning she’d flown out the agency door to fetch the mobile phone left in her car. They’d returned her cheerful greeting. But there’d been a third person standing there. A woman who turned away, averting her gaze, when Bethan tried to include her in the greeting.