The House Sitter

by Jill Barry

  “I gather she’s often away. Wouldn’t being based here prove inconvenient for her? Each time she returned to the UK, she’d face a long drive to mid Wales.”

  “We’ve talked about that. Claudia has a sister living near Southampton and she leaves her car there and spends the night if necessary. Anyway, she doesn’t take on too many cruises nowadays. Claudia has song-writing ambitions and other interests she can’t wait to pursue. Hence the desire to live somewhere off the beaten track.”

  “I see.”

  “But in view of the village’s situation, and the Deacons being on the mature side, I can imagine why they feel the time’s right to move somewhere offering more amenities.”

  “You have absolutely no comprehension of the situation, Mr Kirby!”

  “Hey, I’m sorry if I touched on a raw nerve.”

  At once Ruth changed her tone to one of slight puzzlement. “I’m sorry too. I don’t wish to seem impertinent, but you sound quite ambivalent about this future of yours. I can’t imagine remaining in a relationship unless I felt certain the other person felt equally committed. None of my business, really.”

  Again, he let rip his growl of a laugh. “Yeah, right. That sounds to me like the triumph of hope over experience. I enjoy life while it’s happening. If Claudia returns from her latest trip and announces she’s fallen madly in love with a passenger, I reckon I’ll have to take it on the chin.”

  She saw him shoot a sly glance but kept her eyes focused on the road ahead. “Is that right? I consider myself lucky to be single.”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t had offers.”

  This was going too far, even though she realised he was teasing. “Let’s say, that’d be telling.”

  “Touché. Hey, is this the track?” He gestured to the left.

  “It is.”

  They walked on level ground but Ruth didn’t increase her walking speed.

  “How much further?”

  “Less than half a mile along, you’ll find the track divides. You need to take the left-hand fork then keep straight on. You’ll hear the waterfall before you see it. I think Sparkles and I will turn back now we’ve seen you on your way.”

  “Of course. Thank you.” He held out his hand. “I’ve enjoyed our chat. Maybe you’ll tell me your name before we part company?”

  “It’s Ruth Morgan with a Ms.”

  He nodded. “I hope we’ll meet again soon, Ruth Morgan with a Ms.”

  Deliberately she looked up at the leaden sky before making her way back. She knew she shouldn’t let him go to the waterfall alone. Not in such treacherous weather. Clearly, he saw himself as tough. But Pwll-y-Diafol possessed a history as deep and dark as the underwater cavern beneath its surging cascade.

  As she walked, in her mind’s eye Ruth pictured the craggy rock wall over which the falls tumbled. Only the most experienced climbers and abseiling experts dared scale its unforgiving cliffs. Health and Safety officials would need to lie down in a darkened room if they paid a visit and realised the death trap lurking in the woodland depths. Without doubt, safety rails and warning signs should be installed.

  Ray Kirby had opted to visit the waterfall and the rest was up to Fate. Or was it? She knew an alternative route, an old walkway through the woodland and one only forestry workers used. Without having to feign a limp, she could navigate the undergrowth in minutes. A small grassy plateau on the bank near her access point would be the obvious place for a photographer to stand. On saturated ground, Kirby would need to tread carefully or risk losing his foothold.

  If some invisible force propelled him forward, there would be only one way to fall. The perpetrator could melt into the forest. Who would know? And if he should survive, surely such a shock would unhinge him? Convince him to reject Three Roads as his love nest?

  All she need do was tether the dog somewhere nearby. Maybe the wooden bench tucked into a clearing overlooking Pwll-y-Diafol Falls. The seat was dedicated to a former village resident and wildlife lover. Sparkles would wait patiently, she felt sure. After all, who in their right mind would be wandering the forest tracks on a miserable day designed to host a funeral? Or a drowning? Ruth felt in her pocket for a doggy chew. Like a harbinger of doom, a buzzard circled overhead, its plaintive mew echoing in her ears.

  Kirby posed dual danger now she knew she’d triggered something in his memory. She’d concealed her past notoriety so well. Until now.

  In her office Bethan punched in a number, allowed it to ring, and heard the answer phone respond. “Good morning,” she said, opening the file before her. “It’s Bethan Harley. If you pick this up, Ms Morgan, I have another couple wishing to view The Sugar House. We’ll arrive at eleven o’clock but please don’t worry if you can’t be there. I’m sure Sparkles will present no problem.”

  She cut the call and replaced the phone. It would be bliss if the house sitter happened not to be in residence even though Bethan wasn’t sure this couple were good prospects. They were, in her opinion, somewhat too young to be mummified in a place like Three Roads, but they were keen, possessed savings and longed to live somewhere offering the tranquillity they craved.

  The husband, a mathematician, tutored for the Open University, and the wife wrote articles on lifestyles and health issues. They’d exchanged contracts on their property in the Midlands, so if Mr and Mrs Barnard fell in love with her clients’ house, there was in theory a good chance of them making a sensible offer, something which no doubt would please the Deacons and possibly give Ray Kirby something to tell his partner when he next contacted her.

  Bethan checked her watch. She’d missed breakfast but she could spare time for a quick sandwich before driving to Three Roads. The prospective purchasers wanted to meet her at the property and Bethan threw a quick prayer into the ether, visualising the farmer’s dilapidated tractor blocking the Deacons’ gateway. Or Ruth Morgan constructing a magic pentacle.

  She told herself not to be so negative. Bethan reached for her raincoat, checked she had all she needed in her briefcase, swung her bag over one shoulder and collected the house key from the safe.

  The small delicatessen attached to the town’s best coffee shop attracted a steady trickle of customers all year round. She breathed in the aroma of ripe cheeses and garlic sausage while selecting a hummus and tomato wrap, paid up and headed for the car park. She’d be early for her appointment but better that than have the Barnards arrive without her being around. If her suspicions about Ruth Morgan had substance, would this warning phone call energise the woman into mischief making? But what, given such short notice, could she possibly do without blowing her cover?

  The windscreen wipers clunked like a noisy metronome. Bethan drove out of the car park, the sound reminding her of the backing to a song her daughter currently rated as cool. She switched on the sidelights, waited to join the main road traffic and changed to dipped beam in tune with the other motorists. She’d learnt not to fret about having to show off a house on a day best spent beneath the duvet, and in this particular case, a downpour meant nothing compared with the curious incident of the field mouse in the daytime.

  Mentally, she ticked off the list of possible purchasers. The Hunts, despite a half-hearted attempt to assure her they hadn’t let the windscreen attack put them off, still hadn’t been in touch regarding a second viewing. The two consultants had originally asked to be informed if someone made an offer on The Sugar House. But Bethan’s assistant reported Mrs Sarani had rung that morning to check whether the Deacons still planned to keep the house on the market. What was that all about?

  When questioned by the receptionist, Mrs Sarani had apparently sounded vague about her reason for asking but mentioned her concern about Mrs Deacon’s fragile health status. The consultant posed the possibility of the vendors taking their house off the market, albeit temporarily. Bethan felt a rush of impatience as she tried to stifle her suspicions about the Deacons’ house sitter. Tried to recall whether Ruth Morgan could have been alone with the couple long e
nough to give them food for the wrong kind of thought. Surely not?

  Ray Kirby was, without a doubt, the most likely person to make an offer. But he wouldn’t do so until after his partner viewed and approved his choice. That was fair enough. At least, by the time his lady returned from her cruising gig, the vendors would be back in residence and the sinister Ms Morgan in her own home, hunched over her cauldron. Bethan couldn’t help grinning as she enjoyed that image. Poppy would scold her if she could read her mum’s thoughts.

  Yet, she still couldn’t zap the memory of the woman with long dark auburn hair, a woman whose tapering fingers, nervous tic, and erect posture chimed with Ruth Morgan’s appearance. But wasn’t that ludicrous? Perhaps Poppy was right in suggesting these odd but explainable mishaps had undermined Bethan’s usual confidence. Had she merely got off on the wrong foot with the Deacons’ friend? To be fair, if Bethan had to leave her own home in the hands of a trusted house sitter, wouldn’t she be pleased if that person guarded the place like a Rottweiler salivating to show off its sharp teeth?

  Still she couldn’t dismiss her doubts. How odd was it that yobs just happened to target a car belonging to people coming to view a house? The Deacons swore they’d never heard of such an incident occurring before. Word got around swiftly in small communities like theirs and Bethan had no reason to doubt them. But how about the tractor left blocking the gateway? Again, the annoyance was timed to interfere with another house viewing. The farmer owned the land over which the Deacons had right of way. Was that issue destined to cause trouble, despite what the deeds pronounced?

  More importantly, wasn’t the presence of that field mouse in the downstairs cloakroom like seeing a vagrant taking tea at Claridges? Time needed to elapse before vermin began to stink the place out. Bethan recalled the foul smell in her father’s shed when she’d been a curious twelve-year-old and poked around his neat workspace, holding her nose, until she pulled out a plastic bin and found a dead hedgehog hidden behind. Her father had given her extra pocket money that weekend. Had the house sitter revelled in asking Bethan if she should check the downstairs facility, knowing full well the nasty consequence of entering it?

  Bethan slowed down for the 40 mph zone and indicated left for Three Roads. A cloak of mature conifers sheltered the road either side. Further on, she drove past what she knew were young trees, planted to replace ones felled on that land. A sign pointed her to one of the many forest trails traversing the area but she ignored it and drove on, changing gear as the incline grew steeper, reminding her to take the bend with care.

  Bethan cursed softly. She’d turned on to the track only to find Ruth Morgan’s car parked neatly upon the gravelled turning space. The gates were closed. Bethan got out of the driving seat and opened them, propping them wide with the bolts provided. Back in her car, and with a flash of malice, which gave her an equally swift flash of guilt, Bethan parked so close to the house sitter’s vehicle that no way would the woman succeed in driving off without Bethan moving her own car. Why she did this, she was at a loss to explain.

  The car clock showed she’d arrived five minutes early. She left her car locked. Walked slowly away from the house and along the track, ready to greet the couple whose arrival she expected very soon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ray Kirby enjoyed woodland. If he could have his life over again, he’d choose to be someone like Bear Grylls. His idea of heaven was spending time somewhere no one else wanted to be. As a younger man, he’d spent many a night under the stars, often on his own or with mates on those getting away from it all weekends. For stress busting, in his opinion, you couldn’t better stuff like that. How the heck he’d ended up living in Surbiton, he really didn’t know. Except, he did know, because that pointed to another life. Another lady. And the fact that when he hit his early forties, he decided the time had arrived to put down a wine cellar.

  Funny how fate sometimes caused the frogs in the box to jump every which way. At this stage of his life it was he and Claudia who needed to put down roots as a couple and, whatever flip remarks he’d made to the Deacons’ frosty friend, he felt secure with his partner of two years. Secure enough to buy a property with her. Although his gut feeling told him Claudia, bright and beautiful, with a voice which, whenever he heard it, turned his legs to treacle, maybe didn’t feel quite so secure with him.

  The amazing Cleo Dankworth was Claudia’s heroine and role model, so she sometimes included If We Lived on Top of A Mountain in her performances. Three Roads nestled in a valley but was around 1300 feet above sea level with the mountain range looming even higher at one side of the village. Perfect. He let the words of the song run through his mind while he pictured Claudia, wearing one of her slinky dresses, standing on a stage, transfixing her audience. One newspaper reviewer had described Claudia as the possessor of a fabulous set of pipes. Claudia was fabulous, full stop. Enough. He glanced either side of him as he progressed.

  Somewhere around here was an Outward-Bound centre. If this waterfall was all he’d heard it hyped up to be, surely there’d be safety restrictions in place? Youngsters and their instructors must come across it when trekking through the countryside. Was the enigmatic Ruth Morgan, not forgetting the Ms, trying to put him off the area, by any chance? If that was the case, she’d picked the wrong man for her scaremongering tactics. Hazard was his middle name.

  Ray Kirby marched on; black waterproof hat jammed on his head. High collar buttoned beneath. He burrowed his chin deeper as persistent rain lashed him. Not that he minded. But there wasn’t a lot to look at yet. If you’d seen one leggy conifer, you’d seen them all. The Devil’s Pool had better be worth this rather tedious trek. He’d take photographs and head back to the car ready for the drive back. At least his solo house hunting had led to a positive decision, but he’d stick to his word and keep schtum until he’d talked things over with his lovely lady.

  Claudia would still be in bed in her cabin on the cruise liner. The ship was scheduled to leave Florida in a couple of days’ time. Claudia. In bed. He savoured the image. Wondered if she was awake and thinking of him. He knew she’d tease him when he told her how he walked through bone-chilling, horizontal rain to take photographs. You could’ve searched on the internet, she’d say. Thinking about the woman who’d stolen his reason, if not totally his heart, Ray almost overshot the left-hand fork Ruth Morgan had advised him to follow.

  Bethan beckoned to the driver to park by the front door. She waited as the car tyres crunched over the gravel and came to a halt.

  The man at the wheel wound down his window. “Hi, Mrs Harley.”

  Jonathan Barnard possessed an unruly mop of black curls and a pair of dark brown eyes. Ray Kirby also had memorable eyes. In his case though, the phrase ‘come to bed eyes’ dropped into Bethan’s mind. Maybe she’d been sleeping on her own too long.

  “Not too difficult to find, I hope, Mr Barnard?”

  “I do believe we’re even on time for once. Mind you, my lovely wife tried to divert me from the Sat Nav by singing Sospan Fach.”

  Bethan chuckled and wished this pair had more collateral.

  Mrs Barnard, wearing a crimson wool poncho with black leggings and ankle boots, hopped out of the front seat.

  “I’m impressed, Mrs Barnard. You can give me a repeat performance if you like.”

  “Don’t encourage her,” said her husband.

  Bethan waited to hear their initial reactions as the couple gazed at the property.

  “Wow. This house looks really welcoming,” said Mrs Barnard. “It’s solid. Like you could depend upon it to look after you.”

  Bethan nodded. “You’re right. I’ve always thought of its interior as its main attraction, but I agree the property has dignity."

  “I like the way it sits in its own patch, with nobody overlooking it,” said Mr Barnard. “Does the farmer use that gateway much? The one close by the gates to this house? I’m thinking about the right of way that’s mentioned.”

  “Of course, but
the entitlement is clear and I gather Mr Sartin is something of a loner, a one-man band with stock and a couple of fields to look after,” said Bethan, employing her estate agent’s tact. “I’m glad you like your first sight of The Sugar House. I’ll just knock in case the vendors’ house sitter hasn’t noticed our arrival. I left a message on the answer phone, but she could be busy in the kitchen.”

  After two rings on the doorbell produced no response, Bethan inserted the key, pushed opened the door and called a greeting through the slice of air. “Are you there, Ms Morgan? It’s Bethan Harley and I’m bringing Mr and Mrs Barnard in now. Okay?”

  Nothing.

  “Come inside,” said Bethan, experiencing a ridiculous sense of relief. “I’ll just check to see if the dog’s here. She’s a sweetie and if Ms Morgan has gone out, she’ll have left Sparkles somewhere secure. Why don’t you start your tour with the front room? That leads to the conservatory. Ignore the rain. Check out the fabulous view.”

  She left the couple to it and hurried towards the kitchen and utility room. Everything looked as though a Stepford Wife had done the business. She pushed open the utility room door very carefully, calling, “Sparkles? Are you there? It’s only me.”

  No welcoming bark from a dog that definitely wouldn’t be left outside in such lugubrious weather. So, either Ms Morgan had taken her for a walk or she and the Labrador were visiting locally. Either way, so far, Bethan couldn’t detect anything designed to deter prospective purchasers. Unless she and the young couple went upstairs to the bedrooms to be confronted by a dead animal head staring glassy-eyed from a snowy pillow.

  Bethan made a mental note not to let her imagination go into overdrive. It wasn’t difficult to imagine her daughter saying ‘Mu-um’ in that way teenagers had. She hurried back to find her clients admiring the view as she’d suggested.

  The tour of the house progressed to the point where the young couple had made all the right noises, asked questions and now, having raised their eyebrows at one another, were checking their watches.