Esme assured Mr Evans that she would see what she could do to clarify Mrs Roberts’s motives. By the time she left his office her head was reeling. Why reject buyers who must, by now, be close to the point when a sale could go through? Why start again? And who was this other buyer?
As she stepped into the street her earlier thoughts came to mind, about whether the cottage no longer being owned by Sir Charles had come as a surprise to his beneficiary, whoever he was, or she, or even they.
What if he, she or they had believed the cottage to be still part of the estate? Or had reason to believe that it should still be? Had Daisy had doubts as to the legitimacy of Polly’s ownership? If Sir Charles was Daisy’s father and he’d passed the cottage on to Polly without going through the proper channels, would that explain Daisy’s instructions to Mr Evans to hurry the legalities along? Mr Evans’s words had been, It made no sense. But it made perfect sense if Daisy was afraid someone else had a claim on the cottage.
Esme shook her head. This was completely beside the point. The estate had already been sold. Surely it was too late for any such challenge? And anyway, if there had been any legal anomalies Mr Evans would have uncovered them by now.
She stopped suddenly in mid-step, causing a man in a suit and in a hurry to crash into her. They both uttered flustered apologies, Esme smothering a grimace at the injury she’d sustained in her leg from the corner of his briefcase. But she assured him she was fine and he sped off, presumably late for a meeting, looking distinctly wet without the benefit of a raincoat. Esme made for the park-and-ride bus-stop opposite and slumped against the semi-bench on one side of the Perspex wall.
It wouldn’t be in Mr Evans’s remit to query the ownership of the cottage, it would be that of any potential purchaser’s legal representative. Had Polly been forced to switch buyers because questions might arise about the legal anomalies that Daisy had feared? And what sort of buyer would be undeterred by such inconsistencies?
She let out a long sigh. Hadn’t she already worked that out? The one person who believed herself to be the rightful owner of the cottage in the first place? Someone who had come back into the family fold after many years, to claim her inheritance. That someone had to be Catherine Monkleigh.
15
‘That female blackbird is spending so much energy seeing off the other birds,’ commented Polly as Esme arrived at her bench in the garden at Wisteria House, ‘she’ll need twice as much food as she would if she just let them be and got on with it.’
Polly was wrapped up against the damp spring air watching the bird feeders across the other side of the lawn.
‘I didn’t realise they were so territorial,’ said Esme quietly, so as not to disturb the birds. Not that they seemed bothered by her arrival. They were obviously quite tame and used to human activity nearby.
‘Robins are usually the worst, but this blackbird has really got a bee in her bonnet.’ Polly looked up at Esme. ‘Have you found something else we overlooked in the cottage? Is that why you’re here again?’
Esme shook her head. ‘No, it isn’t that. I called in on Mr Evans yesterday.’
‘Who, dear?’ Polly’s eyes followed the sparrows flitting from the bushes to the bird table and back.
‘Of Smith, Evans and Dart,’ said Esme. ‘Your solicitors. I went to drop off the keys of the cottage.’ Was she being deliberately evasive?
Polly continued to study the birds.
‘Mr Evans was rather distressed,’ continued Esme. No response. ‘He told me you’d written to him.’ The old lady still didn’t say anything. Esme walked in front of Polly and bent down so their faces were level. ‘Is everything all right? Mr Evans was most concerned that your daughter’s instructions weren’t being carried out as she’d asked.’
Polly flashed a look at Esme. ‘Daisy would quite understand,’ she said pursing her lips.
‘But to sell a house without legal representation…’
Polly smoothed the blanket across her knee. ‘Nonsense. It’s all taken care of.’
‘But why change things?’
‘I don’t see as it’s any of your business,’ said Polly. ‘I think I’ll go back inside now.’ She started to remove the blanket. Esme took it from her and helped her up from the bench. She picked up the old lady’s walking stick and handed it to her.
‘Had you talked to Elizabeth about it?’ continued Esme as they began their slow journey down the path.
Polly halted. ‘Elizabeth will be pleased that there isn’t anything more to worry about,’ she said decisively.
Esme didn’t doubt that but she suspected that Polly was being obtuse and deliberately missing the point. She sighed. Polly wasn’t going to reveal anything. Her body language told Esme that the matter had been concluded and that was the end of it. Esme couldn’t see what else she could do. It was exactly as she had said to Lucy. All she had were suspicions.
‘Reassure me on one thing, at least,’ urged Esme. ‘Have you had it valued properly? You aren’t underselling it are you? You’re not being…swindled.’ It was the only word which came to mind. It sounded silly.
Polly patted her arm. Perhaps she sensed that Esme was about to accept the situation and relaxed. ‘There’s enough for me to see out my days here. That’s all I need.’
As they made their way back to the house, Esme desperately tried to think of something she could say to overcome the old lady’s stubbornness. She asked herself whether she should she put her concerns to Mrs Rowcliffe? But then if her policy was that the residents were not children and were, unless medically diagnosed otherwise, capable of making their own decisions, she would be dismissive. The situation was exactly the same as involving the police. What evidence did she have that there was anything illegal going on? If Polly was insistent that everything was above board, perhaps there was nothing to worry about. Esme thought of Gemma’s comment. Maybe it was Esme’s naturally suspicious tendencies. Perhaps Gemma had a point.
But Esme didn’t believe it. There were too many unanswered questions. Why had Polly seemed so anxious? Why was she so reticent about her past? Esme was still convinced that Polly knew something about Elizabeth’s accident. If only she would tell her what she knew, it might lead them to the possible attacker.
Esme felt a surge of desperation. It was like being in a bad dream when you couldn’t run fast enough to get away from the danger. She felt something was slipping away from her but she had no idea what it was. She only sensed that it was vitally important.
They reached the side entrance and Esme held the open door for Polly and assisted her into the corridor.
‘Ah, there you are, Mrs Roberts.’ Abigail was walking towards them. ‘There’s someone to see you.’
‘Who?’ Polly asked, halting abruptly. Her tone was suspicious.
‘Mrs Watts.’ Polly’s grip tightened on Esme’s arm. ‘I’ve shown her into the lounge, OK?’ The girl turned and headed back down the corridor.
Esme closed the outside door and looked at the old lady’s face. It was drained of colour.
‘What does she want?’ Polly muttered under her breath.
‘What is it?’ whispered Esme. ‘Do you want me to send her away? I can say you aren’t feeling well.’
Polly shook her head. ‘I can’t. I’ll have to see her. She wouldn’t believe you anyway. She’s got a nasty suspicious mind, has Mary.’ So Esme had remembered correctly, the name was Mary.
‘Is this the lady you used to work with?’
Polly gave a hollow laugh. ‘Lady? She’s no lady.’
‘Is she Mary Griffin, that was?’
Polly flashed an alarmed look at Esme, but didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Her reaction confirmed it. It said, how did you know?
‘Why has she suddenly decided to visit you?’ continued Esme. ‘If she upsets you so much –’
‘She won’t be com
ing for much longer. I told you. Soon it will be all sorted out.’ She made a move towards the door.
Esme took a step alongside her. ‘Do you want me to stay for a while? Let me take your coat, at least. Shall I go and organise some tea?’
Polly leant on her stick and looked Esme in the eye. ‘I know you mean well, Esme. But I don’t have any choice. I have to do this my way. Please leave now.’ She reached out and touched Esme’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nearly over.’ Esme watched as Polly walked carefully down the passageway and turned into the lounge.
Well, you could take a horse to water and all that, but if someone wouldn’t co-operate what could you do? Sighing, Esme buttoned her coat and walked towards the way out. As she passed the entrance to the lounge she slowed her pace. No one was about. She hovered at the partly open doorway. She could hear voices coming from inside the room. She heard Polly complaining about the intrusion.
‘Now don’t be like that,’ a whining voice answered, which she assumed to be that of Mary Watts. ‘I just wanted to check that you weren’t thinking of pulling out of our little arrangement.’
‘Why should I?’ she heard Polly say.
‘A little bird tells me that someone has been poking their nose…’
At that moment Esme looked up to see Mrs Rowcliffe coming round the corner and she was obliged to move away from the door or be caught eavesdropping. She acknowledged the matron and hurriedly made her way through the front door and on to the drive.
She stopped and took a few deep breaths to ease her exasperation with Polly’s reticence. She couldn’t take at face value what Polly said, that everything would be sorted out in due course. It couldn’t be that simple. There was still so much to understand.
But it was important that she moved fast. Everything had to be linked to this unorthodox sale of Keeper’s Cottage. It was vital that she unearthed something before the sale went through or it would be too late. But where to go from here? It was so frustrating.
Esme delved into her bag for her mobile phone and turned it on. Perhaps Lucy had come up with something. She scrolled to the records office number and made the connection. While she waited to be put through to Lucy she wandered over to her Peugeot. The morning’s early rain had left a clean fresh smell in the air and she ran her forefinger through the beads of water on the bonnet as she went through everything.
Why was the cottage such an issue? She’d asked herself the same question over and over. If the estate hadn’t already been sold on it might have been of concern to someone. Either because they disliked the idea of the original estate being broken up or were excessively greedy and wanted their full pound of flesh. But the estate had already been sold to the botanical trust and their project concerned only the ruin of the hall. They might have plans to sell the remainder of the estate to help fund the project but she couldn’t see how that would affect anything.
The phone crackled and Lucy came on the line.
‘Where’ve you been?’ she complained. ‘I’ve been leaving messages all morning.’
‘I’ve had the phone switched off. Why? What’ve you got?’
‘I found out when Sir Charles died and rooted out the obituary in the local rag.’
‘Thanks, Lu. That’s great. I’ll call in and read it.’
‘I’ve already read it and there’s something you should know.’
‘What did it say?’
‘The usual stuff, of course, but I found out something else. You remember the photo I got from the local rag?’
‘Of the charity event? Yes, what about it?’
‘His sister and nephew were in the picture, remember? Apparently his sister died later that year and because the lad’s father was dead, Sir Charles brought him up as his own.’
So it wasn’t a wife who had her nose put out of joint by the return of Catherine. It was a nephew.
‘Strange that the gardener didn’t mention him,’ said Esme. ‘I might go and have another word. This is beginning to get interesting. I’ve thought of something else, too, since I saw the solicitor. Where shall we meet? I’ll fill you in.’
‘Wait a minute. There’s more. I also checked back in the probate reports in The Times. It reports the values of estates.’
‘Yes, I know. I bet it was worth a quite a bit, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s just it. It was hardly worth anything. It must have been mortgaged to kingdom come. Dear old Sir Charles Monkleigh, for all his apparent wealth, was as poor as a church mouse.’
16
Esme pressed ‘send’ on her computer and e-mailed her final report to the Shropton Canal client, who had abruptly dispensed with her services. It was already written so she might as well pass it on to him. Especially as his cheque had arrived that morning. It was odd, though, that he had pulled out when she was barely half-way through the job. She shrugged it off. There was always the occasional eccentric client, she’d learnt, in this line of work. At least he’d paid his dues. Everyone was entitled to change their minds, as long as they paid for what she’d done.
She gathered up her notes from the floor, along with the Ordnance Survey map she’d been studying. Folding the map prompted her to recall the Monkleigh estate plans she’d been examining the day before. There was something definitely bugging her about Polly’s cottage, but when she had tried to identify it she had drawn a complete blank. It was frustrating because she knew that time was running out and if she was to discover anything useful it was going to have to be soon or it would be of no value whatsoever.
She was meeting Lucy later to go through everything, sincerely hoping that between them they could unravel something which might establish their next move.
She went over to the window to draw the curtains. Dusk was creeping in and the dull day had resulted in an early darkfall. She glanced out into the lane. A car was slowly crawling past the cottage. She peered into the gloom. It looked like that black Audi again from the old farmhouse, currently being renovated. It looked as though the driver hadn’t got used to the narrow lanes, yet. Some people found them as intimidating as she found fast multi-lane motorways, particularly if they’d moved from a part of the country where roads had wide carriageways. They braked at every slight curve in the road, even stopping in panic when another road user came the other way. And that was on a two-way road. They probably never ventured down single-track lanes.
As she turned away from the window something clicked. She stopped dead. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She cursed herself for being so slow. She glanced at the clock. It was about to strike five. Just enough time. She grabbed the telephone and dialled, crossing her fingers that the receptionist hadn’t gone home early.
*
Andy was in reception when Esme burst through the door. He was alone. The desks were empty, equipment shrouded, and a single desk lamp burning next to him.
Esme gasped to get her breath back. ‘Thanks for this. I hope I’m not holding you up. I got here as fast as I could.’
‘Not at all. I’m intrigued,’ said Andy, coming behind Esme to bolt the front door. ‘Come on in, tell me all.’
He gestured for her to sit down in the waiting area. She dropped into a soft sofa by the window.
‘That booklet that was in your office. The one I was flicking through when I came before.’
‘The Local Development Plan, you mean?’
‘Yes that’s it. Can I take a look again?’
‘Sure.’ Andy got up and ferreted around behind the reception desk. ‘I thought there was one down here, but I can’t see it. Hang on, I’ll nip upstairs and get my copy.’ He disappeared around the corner and bounded up the stairs.
Now Esme was convinced that she knew why the cottage was a key. But she still didn’t understand why Polly had found herself so vulnerable. It could only be that there was some irregularity with Polly’s ownership of the pro
perty which put her in a weak position. Why else would someone persuade her to be so secretive about selling it? Why else would she be so willing to indulge whoever it was? The word ‘persuade’ floated around in her head. She had previously concluded that the old lady was under some sort of pressure. What if ‘persuade’ was too weak a word? What if the true situation was blackmail? Was this why she was unable to enlist Esme’s help? It couldn’t be simply a matter of privacy or she wouldn’t have reassured Esme by telling her she knew Esme meant well. The poor old lady was boxed in. Hadn’t she said that she had no choice? Blackmail. It made perfect sense.
Esme felt hot and stupid. Why hadn’t she realised ages ago? Polly had assured Esme that all would be sorted satisfactorily because she had been resigned to the fact that selling the cottage would conclude the episode. She had also told Esme that she believed the settlement to be completely fair.
But if Esme was right, what Andy was going to tell her was going to put a completely different slant on things. And it would suggest that however ‘fairly’ Polly thought she was being treated, the intention of the purchaser couldn’t be further from the truth.
Andy reappeared and handed Esme the document. She took it from him and began riffling through the pages.
‘You’re being very furtive,’ he teased. ‘Aren’t you going to fill me in?’
‘There’s a map, isn’t there?’
‘At the back.’
Esme found it and laid it open on her lap. She pored over it for a few silent moments. ‘There!’ She swivelled the map around and handed it over to him, pointing to a spot on the page. ‘Tell me about that bit.’
Andy looked at her, mildly amused, and took the booklet. He looked at the place she had indicated and flicked back and forth. He set the booklet down on the low table next to Esme and sat down.
‘This is Heathley.’ He placed his finger on a shaded area. ‘I’m assuming this is the bit you’re interested in, the village envelope. This is the area in which, in the opinion of the local planners, planning permission would be favourably considered.’
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