The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1)

by Mac Fletcher

  “There y’are m’dears,” she said as she relieved Jan of her coat and ushered the pair into an awesome library, made homely by a flickering log fire.

  “Dunno about you Jan, but I feel like a street urchin.” whispered Greg as he surveyed his weathered gear.

  “Mmm.” Jan grinned in awe. “Hard to believe someone could own a place like this and be anything but wealthy.”

  Greg sighed as a flicker of irony crossed his face. “Déjà vu.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.”

  Sarah Penmaric, lady of the house, eventually entered, though Greg was surprised to find her stylish, immensely attractive - and unpretentiously informal. She introduced herself simply as Sarah, and called on the maid to serve sherry.

  “It will help warm you through - it’s bitter again isn’t it?” The pair agreed as they sipped their drinks in front of the fire.

  Although Greg had been wary of Sarah, after a short conversation he became convinced that, in the main, she had Jan’s interests at heart. She suggested taking rent for the cabin - a percentage of profits was mentioned - with an ultimate view to selling.

  “I would have to make a legal provision though,’ she explained, ‘to allow for a situation whereby Nigel and myself were forced to sell quickly… and you weren’t able to buy...’

  “I understand that perfectly,’ interrupted Jan, wishing to save Sarah discomfort.

  Sarah smiled and continued. “Obviously, renting out the cabin won't solve our problems, though every little helps, and it would lessen our responsibilities." She looked towards Jan, pausing as she sipped her sherry, then shook her head slowly. "I can’t imagine why I said our responsibilities – I don't think Nigel would care if I gave the cabin away."

  “Neither would we.” Greg laughed, adding more seriously: “If we made the cabin look like a viable proposition, do you think we’d secure local backing? As a business venture rather than domestic, I mean."

  “I’m sure you would,” replied Sarah. ‘Originally, I'm told, the café paid its way even with a premium rent. Lawson told me there were people ready to rip his arm off when he considered selling it years ago, largely because the authorities were amenable to usage of the land as a camping or caravan site. Perfectly screened from the road and the house here, you see."

  Greg’s eyes widened as Sarah spoke. “Why didn’t he sell it then?”

  "I adored Lawson but he was set in his ways. He worried about nuisance and all sorts of things, and apparently the estate was running well at the time anyway.”

  “I’m all for having a go.” Jan - who'd said little until that point - almost trembled with enthusiasm.

  Greg, for his part, had already decided that, however short-lived the project might be, he'd at least get some insight as to the potential of local holiday trade.

  “I must say I’d like to have a crack, too,” he said with a broad grin, “provided the rent isn’t too dear.”

  “I don’t think it will be,” said Sarah. “I’ll arrange a meeting with the estate manager.”

  While Jan collected her coat from the hallstand, Sarah walked across to where Greg stood finishing his drink.

  “Greg.” She placed a manicured hand on his arm. “I hear you’re looking for work in the area. Are you interested in a few part-time duties?”

  Greg was hesitant, aware that his sales resistance hadn't been up to par of late.

  "What sort of work?” he asked cautiously.

  “A little driving mainly... Call and see me tomorrow and I’ll explain.”

  Greg and Jan left Penmaric House in a euphoric mood, both eager to discuss the proposed venture as they hurried back to the cabin.

  “Whatever happens, if we're placed in a position to buy at the right price,” urged Greg, “we should take it, if only for the property investment.”

  “Mightn’t that be awkward in the circumstances?”

  “Not really, we'd still be going into it as business partners. Anyway we’ll cross that bridge if and when we reach it.” Greg almost clicked his heels as he recalled Sarah’s comments regarding the possibility of a holiday site. “I know nothing about camping and safety regs, but we'd get thirty or forty static pitches on that ground comfortably!”

  “Now who’s getting carried away?” replied Jan with a grin. "Nothing to do with the subject, but if you atill want to go to France, I'll look after Red for a few days."

  "That's kind Jan. I'd pretty much set my heart on it, and your offer would make it possible." Greg paused to give her a peck on the cheek. "Thanks."

  "Worth it already," said a flattered Jan. “Are you coming for a drink? I’m meeting Mick as soon as I've woken Jamie and got him ready - just for an hour.”

  “Ok... Just to celebrate of course…”

  Chapter Four

  The following evening Greg called to see Sarah as promised, though largely out of curiosity: it struck him as odd she should be offering work to a total stranger.

  “I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” he explained as Sarah led him into her private lounge and directed him to a huge chesterfield, “but surely you could find someone from your payroll at little or no extra cost.”

  Sarah replied that she needed a chauffeur from time to time, mainly for errands. “I don’t drive myself, and I wouldn’t let that awful Tennant back on the grounds for a fortune. Getting rid of him was the only good thing to come out of Lawson’s death. As for other staff, well I'm not really sure who I can trust with personal business.” Sarah found her way into Greg’s heart by pouring him a stiff brandy, then joined him on the couch.

  “We’re both outsiders in a way, that’s why I feel better asking you,” she purred. “Jan said how nice you were, and I felt I could trust you the instant we met.”

  After another drink Greg felt bold enough to ask some personal questions regarding Sarah's plight. Sarah, equally relaxed, was happy to answer. “If we can’t find anything of real value to buy time,” she explained, “we’ll have to sell. I don’t want to - though as I've said, Nigel couldn’t care less.” Sarah’s cobalt eyes were wide and hazy, and she seemed genuinely concerned as she continued: “Honestly Greg, I am worried about the welfare of the employees."

  Greg had no reason to doubt her, feeling Jan had been harsh in branding her a gold digger: Sarah could simplify matters for herself by just selling the place, and still be wealthy, but she'd chosen instead to stay and fight. “Lawson loved the place, and so do I, now - so I won’t just give up and go away!” she declared, flicking back her loose golden locks defiantly.

  "Tell me it's none of my business, but this hidden fortune business I keep hearing about…" Greg became bolder still as the brandy kicked in, "it's all bit cloak and dagger, isn’t it? I mean, surely your husband must have given some sort of indication as to what provisions he was going to make?” His braveness led him to be even blunter: “I know it's not my business, but I've heard so much conjecture I'm not sure what to believe. It's rumoured your husband left a message for Nigel - regarding the whereabouts of his personal wealth.”

  "Really?" From her blank stare, it was obvious Sarah knew nothing of such a message. “Honestly Greg, all Lawson ever promised was that Nigel and me would be well provided for if anything happened to him. And I’m sure he meant it. But he died so suddenly, and the solicitor has no knowledge of anything other than the estate.” She paused for a moment and added: “and of course even that's surviving on a razor edge - almost as if...” She stopped.

  “As if he was doing it on purpose?”

  “Almost.”

  Greg sat back and tried to put himself in Penmaric’s position. “I might be judging your late husband by my own standards Sarah, but do you suppose he was laying cash off to keep it from the revenue… or someone else?”

  “I can’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind,” replied Sarah eventually. “Greg - can I ask you a favour?”

  “Go on.” Greg was amazed that someone he hadn’t yet spent a total of an hour with
should be confiding in him so readily.

  “Well, Nigel tells me you’re planning to go to Spain with him in a few weeks. If you do, will you… will you keep an eye on what he does? I’m sure there’s something going on, and I'm equally sure he knows more about Lawson’s business than he lets on - stupid as he acts.”

  Greg was beginning to feel used: that the whole set up had been to gain his confidence so he could be manipulated to spy on Nigel.

  “Surely you could get a private detective for that sort of work,” he retorted. Greg felt a fierce glow within. A surge of anger. “After all I'm just an itinerant as far as you're concerned - a gypsy in a caravan if you like. This cafe business is genuine isn’t it? You haven’t just used it…?”

  Greg hesitated on realisation that he'd gone too far; Sarah was crying. He regained composure and, after apologising, agreed to keep an ear to the ground. As with the cabin, he'd decided that whatever the outcome, it would be interesting to monitor developments.

  ***

  A few days after their joint meeting with Sarah, Jan and Greg were called to Penmaric House to see the estate manager, and an agreement was reached on a percentage-based rental for the cabin and surrounding land.

  Following the agreement, Greg began renovation work on the cabin, with the beneficial effect that he was kept out of the Holly Tree during the day. The cabin began gradually to look much smarter, and though it was a laborious process, Greg was determined to break the back of the work before he accompanied Nigel to Spain. The prospect of making the journey in the Aston-Martin became more daunting as the date drew nearer, but Greg was longing to see his children again.

  In between working on the cabin, Greg was called on several times to act as chauffer to Sarah. He didn't mind the work, it was good to be busy, though he found being at Sarah's beck and call somewhat demeaning. On the other hand he felt it was helping him get the lie of the land. He became increasingly convinced that Sarah fancied him, and more certain still that he fancied her, despite a nagging suspicion that she looked on him as the gamekeeper to her Lady Chatterley. He consoled himself in the knowledge, nevertheless, that he might eventually reap similar benefits...

  *

  On the Thursday evening of that week, at about seven-thirty, Greg wandered into the pub as usual, and was surprised to see Eddy standing on the public side of the counter.

  "Nice rigout," remarked Greg as he surveyed the barman dressed in tight jeans, check shirt, denim waistcoat. "Forgot it was your night off; I assume it's tonight you play at the country and western club?”

  “I doubt if they’ll let me into choir practice like this,” replied Eddy with a sardonic grin. "I prefer Country Rock but this is the only chance I get to practice guitar these days."

  “You said the group was called Dukes and Kings; how does that fit in with a country group?" asked Greg with a puzzled smile.

  “It doesn't: my last name's King and the rhythm guitar-cum-singer is Jimmy Jukes, so that's it.”

  "So there's no drummer?"

  "Yes, but his name's Mendez."

  "'Nuf Sed!"

  Eddy nodded to the old lady behind the bar. “Vi, this is Greg, the guy who’s doubled our takings recently.”

  "I'm a needy case, Greg, and grateful for your custom," nodded Vi with a grin.

  Thursday, Greg’s third in the Holly Tree, was the only night Violet Ball put in an appearance - though visiting her sick sister had caused her absence in preceding weeks. She'd virtually farmed the pub out to Eddy, with good effect, being better suited to watching TV than pulling pints of late. During the busier summer months Eddy was assisted by two deliciously uncouth barmaids, though he needed little help out of season.

  Despite her age, Vi was remarkably savvy, with a needle sharp wit belying her homely appearance. Plump and grey, she'd have looked more at home on a garden-party preserves counter than behind a bar.

  Cyril Gorby, local bore, general nuisance, and freshly out of hospital, was indulging his obsession on the one-armed bandit. Greg had never seen Cyril before but avoided him after having been warned that Gorby was a friend of Wheeler’s: a catastrophic indictment on any man’s character. Eddy summed Gorby up in his usual succinct manner.

  “The most boring fart in the village. More to be laughed at than pitied.”

  The summary could be borne out by anyone who'd listened to Cyril’s account of how he’d: “beaten Colossus at chess on the night that his father had been on ‘This Is Your Life’ because of his efforts during the war as a spy though he was most famous for running marathons barefoot while his uncle had done so well in the navy he’d married the admiral’s daughter who was so tall she’d once kicked a giraffe in the balls…

  “He ought to be able to make toast on that frigging bandit by now,” Eddy whispered, “obsessed with it he is.” Greg smiled with expectancy and the barman almost grinned himself as he continued; “His missis came in a bit back begging me to bar him from using it: swore blind she’d woken that morning with a broken arm and a mouth full of coins.”

  Cyril was a big, clumsy-looking oaf with cockeyed specs, a gravy-stained pullover, splayed feet, and halitosis - the sort one usually has the luck to share a lift with. He hadn’t drunk since his hospital admission, so his normal quota had taken more effect than usual. His condition had in fact fired him with the school-boyish urge to shock someone, so he was pleased Vi was on duty. He considered her marginally more sensitive than Eddy; though only marginally.

  “Everyone moans about hospitals these days, Vi,” he droned as he plonked his glass on the counter, “I have only praise for them.” His voice went up an octave as he continued, “I had superb treatment: night sister gave me a blow job before I came out."

  “Yes Cyril, but we can’t all afford BUPA.”

  Miffed but not silenced, Cyril decided to pick on Eddy instead: a situation akin to a drunken mouse challenging a cat.

  “Kevin Costner I presume,” he sniggered as he surveyed the denims. “One of his old films on last night.”

  “I saw it,” said Eddy. “I think he made it after he died."

  “He’s not dead yet."

  “Good actor."

  Cyril decided to be more direct, so he sneered at the way the barman was dressed. “Playing cowboys at your age - you must be a right bunch of devos down that club.”

  “There’s a bloke standing here,” said Eddy as he turned calmly to Greg. "Pays nearly a week’s wages for a season ticket to spend all winter in pissing rain, watching a bunch of overgrown kids kicking a bladder the length and breadth of a mud-bath - then chances getting mugged fighting his way off the ground. And he say I'm a crackpot for wearing denims!” Eddy took Cyril’s ungainly specs from where he’d left them and put them on.

  “Jesus!” he exclaimed as he squinted at blurred outlines, “you must have good eyesight to see through these.”

  Cyril was saved, as at that moment the bar door swung open, and in lumbered bearded giant Fergal Haye. Cyril quickly returned to the bandit: he was petrified of Fergal and had no wish to mix with him.

  Fergal was another big man, but genial and gentle with it. He worked on road developments and building sites, and generally in places that were unpleasantly cold in winter, and hot and sticky in summer. Ninety five per cent of the time he was ingratiatingly docile, for the remaining five per cent uncontrollably drunk and - given his combined size and strength - potentially dangerous. Provided he was humoured, however, the worst thing he was likely to do was drop his trousers in company, and laugh like Quasimodo at the uproar. Fergal was always a favourite on pub outings and so forth, because of his love of dressing up and making an ass of himself, though Holly Tree regulars were careful to stay on the right side of him as he neared the point of no return.

  Eddy noticed that Greg was staring almost in awe at the giant.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered reassuringly, “he’s one of the lads. I’ve watched him operate a road drill with one hand and read The Sun with the other." The ba
rman went on to tell of a weekend trip to Blackpool when the lads had chipped in for a donkey-ride for Fergal - just so they could get a snap of the spectacle. The donkey’s owner had other ideas:

  “You’re not putting that on mar fuckin’ donkey!”

  Cyril had by now been joined by his reptilian friend Wheeler, and the pair were playing the bandit by turns. “Strange, they seem thicker than ever lately,” remarked Eddy as he took a crinkly roll-up from his tin. “Wonder what their game is?” Greg, who bore the expression of someone who'd had his memory jogged, turned to Eddy.

  “The first lunchtime I was in here,” he said, “you mentioned a message from Penmaric; regarding the whereabouts of his legacy. Do you recall?”

  “Yes.” Eddy nodded cautiously. “But I also said it was hearsay. Don’t quote me on it for Christ’s sake.”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that. Just tell me who you heard it from.”

  Eddy fixed Greg with a half amused stare. “You knocking her off or something?”

  “Who?”

  “Penmaric’s widow - hotter than Vindaloo I hear.”

  “No,” said Greg firmly, though he couldn’t resist smiling, “but between you and me, she knows nothing of such a message. Who did you hear it from?”

  “Between you and me it is then!” Eddy confided. “Hud and Ten were discussing it one night, not long after Penmaric's death. Not that it was meant for my ears, mind. Don’t say anything to this bunch.”

  Greg shook his head vigorously. “I wouldn't dream of it, but was anyone else in here at the time?”

  “Not that I recall: no-one of consequence." Eddy scratched his brow pensively. "Just old Isaac.”

  “Isaac?” Greg gulped down his drink.

  “Local tramp - better known as the man with a bag.”

  Chapter Five

  Greg left the pub and went immediately to see Sarah.

  ‘Mrs P's takin’ a bath,” said the maid as she ushered into the lounge, “'Spec' she’ll be down d’rec’ly, but I'll go an' tell 'er.”