Blood-Tied

by Wendy Percival

  ‘So if you owned this land, it would be worth a fair bit, would it?’

  ‘If you had a plot big enough to build on, yes. You could apply for planning permission and sell it on at a good price.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought.’ She sat back against the seat and folded her arms. ‘I know someone who owns a cottage which used to belong to the estate, years ago.’

  ‘They own land here?’ He gestured to the shaded area on the plan.

  ‘Yes. The owner is an old lady who used to work for the family. The cottage is slap bang in the middle.’

  Andy pulled the plan closer. ‘Whereabouts exactly?’

  Esme pointed out where the cottage was situated.

  Andy looked at her. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Definitely. I’ve been there. Why?’

  Andy raised his eyebrows. ‘We’ve just got permission for clients for new housing a bit further along.’

  Esme studied Andy’s face. ‘Go on.’

  Andy indicated another area of land on the page.

  ‘This area is also ideal for development, on the other side of your cottage.’

  Esme looked carefully, trying to match the plan with what she could remember of the area surrounding the cottage.

  ‘But at the moment,’ continued Andy, ‘there is no access to the site except through there.’ He tapped his finger on the map.

  Esme stared down at where he was pointing. ‘That’s the land which goes with the cottage,’ she explained. ‘It’s a wood. Well, apart from a patch of rough ground at the end.’

  ‘Without access to the road the land beyond is virtually worthless.’

  Esme suddenly realised the implications of what Andy was saying. ‘So whoever owns that piece of scrub holds the key to realising the true value of the land beyond.’ Esme thought of Daisy’s apparent careful planning to sell to the Woodland Trust. She must have been aware of the risk the wood was under and had done everything she could to protect it.

  ‘Got it in one. These guys have been buying up land for a while, ready for when the market is right to cash in on it. And that piece of land,’ he stabbed at the page again, ‘is crucial to their plans. It could be worth millions. In these sorts of cases owners can find themselves under enormous pressure to sell, even if they don’t want to and have no plans to move.’

  Esme sat back in her seat, trying to take everything in. Although Polly hadn’t been put under pressure to move, she was certainly under pressure to sell. To one particular buyer. Esme was convinced now. Blackmail was the only thing which made sense.

  ‘We often come across situations like this one,’ said Andy standing up. ‘They’re referred to as ransom strips.’

  Ransom and blackmail, thought Esme. No wonder Polly appeared so vulnerable.

  17

  Esme sat in her car and digested everything that Andy had told her. She would need to establish whether Polly was aware of the true value of the cottage she was about to sell to her anonymous buyer. If the information Esme had discovered was unknown to Polly, would it change her intentions?

  But how could it if Esme was right and Polly was being blackmailed? Whatever Mary was threateningly whispering into Polly’s ear, it was having the desired effect. Whatever Esme told Polly wouldn’t make any difference, though it might persuade the police to look into the matter. But where did that leave Polly and her hidden secrets? The old lady wouldn’t relish having her dirty linen picked over by the police.

  She dug her mobile phone out of her bag and made a call to Wisteria House. Mrs Roberts was having tea, she was told, would she like to telephone later? Esme toyed with leaving a message but ‘don’t sign anything until I’ve spoken to you’, would have sounded mildly ridiculous. Besides she didn’t want to create an opportunity for starting any more rumours about Polly’s affairs. She knew there was already plenty of speculation about Mary to get tongues wagging. She owed Polly some discretion. She said she’d phone again in the morning. Esme reassured herself with the thought that Polly was unlikely to have a further visit from Mary this evening, and mulling over the situation with Lucy might help Esme decide her best plan of action.

  Esme was seeing Lucy after work in one of Esme’s favourite pubs, The Loggerheads. It had secret little nooks and crannies perfect for conducting conversations without being overheard. Not that the frequenters of The Loggerheads would be that bothered about what two women were gossiping about over half a pint of bitter and a glass of wine. They were there for the beer and possibly the unique historical atmosphere, which was the other reason that the place was a favourite of Esme’s. It hadn’t changed in decades, it was an escape back in time.

  The pub was already busy when they arrived. Esme got in the drinks and they found an empty table in the room at the back.

  They drank to success, without being sure what ‘success’ actually meant in practice. At the moment they were gathering snippets of knowledge but nothing which gave them answers, only prompted more questions.

  Lucy sipped her wine. ‘I double-checked, by the way. There was no mention of the name of the nephew in the obituary.’

  ‘I’m hoping I might find that out tomorrow. I’m paying Albert Jennings another visit.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just telephone him?’

  Esme shook her head. ‘He won’t come to the phone. I made the appointment through his wife. He hardly ever comes out of his greenhouse.’

  ‘Wouldn’t his wife know about the nephew?’

  Esme considered. ‘She might, but I’d prefer to speak face to face. It can reveal things that conversations over the telephone don’t.’

  ‘Body language, you mean?’

  ‘Partly that, but something more.’ Feel the vibes, Tim had always said. Vibes to a journalist were like a hunch to a detective. So he said. Pity they could be lethal, too.

  Esme took a sip of beer and dismissed the direction her thoughts were taking. ‘I found out something about the cottage which puts things in to an interesting light.’ She related what she had been told by Andy.

  Lucy was open mouthed. ‘Well, that would explain why someone might be miffed that it wasn’t part of the estate.’

  ‘Assuming that they knew about its potential value.’

  ‘Surely they must, if it’s the centre of everything, which is what it’s looking like.’

  ‘If Sir Charles’s estate wasn’t worth much, the value of the cottage, whatever it is, wouldn’t be sneezed at, even under ordinary circumstances.’

  Lucy twiddled with the stem of her glass. ‘Yes but the potential value of that strip of land changes everything. It might have tempted someone to raise the stakes.’

  Esme felt a pinprick of apprehension. ‘You mean, resorting to blackmail and coercion to get it?’ She wondered how far they would be prepared to go, and shivered.

  ‘Do you think Mrs Roberts knows what it’s worth?’

  Esme shrugged. ‘I don’t know but I doubt it. I tried to get hold of her but she couldn’t come to the phone. I’ll call her tomorrow. She mustn’t go ahead with this sale, without at least knowing the circumstances.’ She stared pensively into her beer, mentally reiterating what she’d been thinking earlier, about whether Polly’s knowing would change anything. If they were right and Polly was being coerced over something in her past, she wouldn’t have any room to manoeuvre, whatever Esme said. But there was still a chance.

  ‘Are you staying to eat?’ asked Lucy, half getting up. ‘Or are you off home?’

  They decided to indulge and Lucy went to place two orders for fish and chips. Esme listened to the hum of the bar and thought over things in her mind again. Having convinced herself that she now had something more tangible to take to the police, her confidence was ebbing. Surely the problem remained the same? She still had no real evidence that there was anything improper going on, just suspicions. It d
idn’t really amount to anything of any worth. And even if she managed to find a receptive policeman to humour her ideas, Polly would simply dismiss the idea that she was being coerced and that Esme’s interference was an infringement of her privacy.

  Esme’s only hope was to find out what it was that Mary was using against Polly and persuade Polly to seek help from the police herself. But that would only happen if Polly was prepared to admit that the problem existed in the first place. It was wearisome to keep circling endlessly without making progress. Maybe she should confront Mary. Find out what she had to say for herself. Esme’s guess was that although she was the one applying the pressure, she wasn’t working alone. Not if this whole business linked in with the past history of the Monkleigh family and its estate. There must be someone else involved.

  ‘So who do you reckon’s behind this?’ Esme said as Lucy slipped back into her seat.

  ‘You’re still thinking it could be Catherine emerging from the woodwork to claim her rightful inheritance?’

  ‘Makes sense to me. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘I can see the logic, but we could do with knowing what she’s been doing all this time or where she’s been, before we malign the poor woman.’

  Esme considered. ‘Albert said her mother had taken her abroad when they left. There’s no knowing when she came back. It could have been last month, or years ago.’

  ‘If it was last month, she’d hardly be on the ball with planning policy, would she?’ pointed out Lucy. ‘So the likelihood is she’s been back for some time. If she is involved.’

  ‘I got the impression from Albert that once they’d left they were as good as dead. Figuratively speaking, I mean. No one ever mentioned them again. Apart from the staff gossip of course, but not talked about officially.’

  Lucy rested her chin on her elbow. ‘If it was a big family secret maybe the nephew never knew about her. He could have had a bit of a shock at her sudden appearance.’

  ‘You mean he could be involved?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  Esme sighed. ‘We don’t know anything, really. What I can’t work out is a theory to explain where Polly Roberts comes in to it. Surely you wouldn’t pick on someone just because they happened to own a property you want? Her connection with the family has got to be significant.’

  ‘Well, you do hear about people being offered huge sums of money to move out of their homes,’ Lucy pointed out.

  ‘That’s what Andy said, but that’s my point. Large sums of money. I don’t think this is the case here. I’m sure it’s Polly’s link with the family which is key. And this Mary woman, Mary Griffin that was. How does she fit into the frame? Albert Jennings didn’t remember Polly Roberts, and as he started work at the place Mary Griffin was just leaving, having been given the boot. So neither Polly or Mary could have worked there for very long.’

  ‘Long enough to discover they didn’t get on. That could be apparent after a couple of weeks, you don’t need years.’

  ‘That’s true. In a way it’s surprising that they even remember one another, never mind Mary looking Polly up and visiting her.’ Esme looked at Lucy. ‘There’s something we’re missing about those two. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘They could have bumped into one another years later and developed their differences then.’

  Esme picked up her glass. ‘I think you might have something there.’ What had Polly said? ‘She’s got a nasty suspicious mind, has Mary.’ That sounded more like a comment born of weary experience than teenage distaste. What had she meant by it?

  ‘We’ve gone off at such a tangent,’ mused Esme, thinking out loud. ‘I’ve not even got close to finding out who Elizabeth’s father was.’

  Esme froze as soon as the words were out of her mouth. In all the ways she had rehearsed telling Lucy about Elizabeth, this hadn’t been any one of them. She could feel Lucy’s eyes on her.

  ‘Elizabeth’s father?’ Lucy was saying slowly. ‘What do you mean, Elizabeth’s father?’

  Esme bit her lip and then turned and faced Lucy. Her face felt hot with shame. ‘I should have told you, but I felt so stupid.’

  Lucy was frowning. ‘Stupid? What do you mean? Are you trying to tell me that your mother had an affair…’

  Esme shook her head frantically. ‘No, nothing like that.’ She looked down and stared into her glass. ‘It was when we were trying to find out who Elizabeth was meeting when she was attacked. I found all the papers. I didn’t know.’

  ‘What papers?’

  Esme lined up her glass in the centre of the beer-mat. ‘Elizabeth was adopted. I never knew.’

  Lucy was silent for a moment, digesting the information, Esme assumed. Esme filled the silence, explaining how they’d discovered the certificates.

  ‘I can’t believe you never said anything.’ Lucy said quietly.

  ‘The sentence wouldn’t form itself.’ Esme threw her head back and sighed. ‘That sounds pathetic. What I mean is, I couldn’t put it into words. It was all a jumble.’

  Lucy was gripping the stem of her glass. Her brow knotted tightly as she stared into her wine. ‘It’s as though you couldn’t trust me.’ She sounded hurt.

  ‘No, it wasn’t like that, really.’ Esme swallowed. ‘I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you but…’ Esme’s excuse fizzled out, the knot in her insides tightening. They sat in limbo, neither speaking.

  ‘I knew there was something,’ said Lucy after a while, ‘but I couldn’t put my finger on it.’ Esme thought back to the occasion in the café when her answers to Lucy’s questions had been deliberately vague and she’d joked about sounding ridiculous.

  Lucy exhaled noisily and slumped back against the settle. ‘God, you must have been bloody cross with me.’

  Esme was aghast. ‘You? Why with you?’ She sensed a momentary stab of panic. ‘You didn’t know, did you?’

  But Lucy was on a different track, berating herself about something. Esme tried to concentrate on her words. ‘You came back here because you needed some security after Tim’s death, some stability.’ She stabbed at herself in the chest with her forefinger. ‘And I was the one who persuaded you that your family could give it to you.’ She was sounding increasingly annoyed, now.

  Esme put her hand on Lucy’s arm. ‘Hey, it’s me who’s been the self-centred individual,’ she said, with half a laugh. ‘Not you. My family’s short comings aren’t your fault, you idiot.’

  Lucy looked at her with a wan smile. ‘No. Perhaps not.’

  ‘There’s no “perhaps” about it. You convinced me that roaming around the country in and out of bed-sits and unsuitable jobs was neither going to bring back Tim, or get my life in order. You can’t take the rap for the deceit of my family.’ Esme realised she had said the word deceit with noticeable resentment.

  ‘I can understand you being bitter about it,’ sympathised Lucy. ‘Especially as Elizabeth could have set the record straight, but hadn’t done so.’

  Esme managed to nod. She daren’t trust herself to say anything. There was too much close to the surface for it not to spill out. Lucy would understand that. Esme was grateful that she understood why she’d found it so hard to tell her. But Esme didn’t let herself off the hook so easily. For all that she had rebuked her own family for their betrayal, this was a betrayal of her own and Lucy deserved more.

  Their food arrived as a welcome diversion. They discussed safe topics over their meal. Lucy’s planned holiday in Peru later in the year, the hospital’s optimistic assessment to Elizabeth’s condition and inevitably the weather, neither of them being able to recall such a wet April as it was proving to be.

  ‘I forgot to tell you,’ said Esme, pushing her plate to one side. ‘Catherine’s birth certificate arrived.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Nothing we didn’t already know. Full name Catherine Marguerite Monkleigh. Born 8th F
ebruary 1939, at Markham Hall.’

  ‘So where now?’

  ‘Albert Jennings. I’m seeing him again tomorrow. Hopefully he’ll have something which will give us another lead. Something about the nephew.’ Esme paused. ‘I wonder why he didn’t mention him when I was there last time?’

  ‘Because you were asking about the past not the present?’ suggested Lucy.

  They returned their glasses to the bar and left the pub. As they stepped out into the street Esme turned to Lucy.

  ‘Thanks for not giving me my just desserts about blanking you. I guess that’s why you’re such a good friend.’

  Lucy reached out and squeezed Esme’s arm. ‘I’ve known you and your protective shield for a long time, remember. I don’t take it personally any more.’

  Esme smiled. ‘Thanks, anyway. I’m lucky to know you.’

  Lucy laughed. ‘Well, that’s pushing it a bit, but I accept the compliment in the manner in which it was meant.’ She gave a theatrical bow of her head.

  As they said their goodbyes and parted, a sense of unease stirred in Esme. Was it something Lucy had said? She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She shouldn’t feel uneasy, but optimistic. They were on the brink of a breakthrough. She was sure of it.

  18

  ‘You know where he’ll be, Mrs Quentin,’ said Albert’s wife gesturing through the kitchen after she showed Esme in. ‘Do go through.’ She went back to her mixing-bowl on the kitchen table. Esme thanked her and made her way to the greenhouse. As she’d told Lucy, she could believe that Albert lived, slept and ate in his greenhouse, and a comment from Ada implied that she thought it only a matter of time before he would.

  This time his ‘angels’ were on the high shelves above him. The pots on the bench were full of grey-leaved daisy-like plants.

  Esme made sure she made a quick efficient entry into the greenhouse so as not to arouse Albert’s displeasure by letting in cold air on his precious horticultural stock.