‘If I may . . . ?' he said. 'Fran, what, precisely, did your disappointed expert say?'
'He said that it was definitely not eighteenth-century but a very competent nineteenth-century portrait in the manner of Reynolds. It could possibly fetch between eight and fifteen hundred at auction ...'
'That puts me in the clear, I think,' interrupted Halavant. 'I may look antique to a child like Franny, but I was not around in the nineteenth century to commission forgeries!'
Fran looked ready to dispute this, but Digweed said, ‘It occurs to me that the original portrait was out of the hands of the owner, Edwina Guillemard, for a lengthy period in the eighteen-eighties. This was when my grandfather Ralph was painting her portrait to match the one of Frances Guillemard she already had.'
'Edwin! You're not saying that your grandfather ...'
'No, of course not,' said Digweed indignantly. 'Anyone who's seen his picture of Edwina can see that while he was a reasonably competent oil painter, he was far from possessing the skills necessary to fool all the sharp-eyed people who've been fooled since.'
'What, then?' said Halavant.
'There were two reasons Ralph needed the portrait. One, to help him in his task of painting Edwina. Two, in order to get both portraits put in matching frames. I know from his journal that he used a friend in the art business to do this, and he became rather concerned at the length of time it took to get the frames prepared.'
There was a moment of puzzled silence, broken by Wield who said, 'This friend of your granddad's wouldn't have been Jeremy Halavant, would he?'
Digweed smiled warmly at him.
'That's right. Jeremy who had just recently had his half-built new house burned down, almost certainly at the instigation of the Guillemards, though no one could prove it. It cost him a considerable sum to put it right. How might he have felt if suddenly he found himself in temporary possession of what proved to be a very valuable painting belonging to the family who in his eyes owed him a considerable debt? He would have had the contacts to get a first-rate job done. And once back on Edwina's wall, if anyone ever did detect a difference, they would probably put it down to the cleaning and reframing which had taken place.'
'But that would mean Job Halavant got taken in by his own grandfather's fake!' exclaimed Lillingstone.
'Not just Job,' said Kee, looking significantly at Justin. 'Justin too!'
'And not just me,' said Justin, smiling fondly at Caddy, who shrugged and said, 'There's no such thing as fakes, just good paintings and bad paintings.'
Halavant began to laugh, Kee and Larry Lillingstone exchanged smiles, Digweed winked at Wield who looked away, Dalziel was looking as if someone had snatched an apple pie out of his mouth and given him a turnip instead. Only Franny Harding looked unhappier than the Fat Man.
‘It's not funny,' she said, half sobbing and leaning against Bendish who patted her legs comfortingly, ‘It's all been for nothing and we're nowhere nearer saving the school.'
Digweed coughed again. The group were fast learners. This time he got even quicker attention.
He held up a sheet of fax paper and said, 'Things are not quite so black as they seem, perhaps. There could indeed be peace in our time.'
'You've heard from your lawyer friend,' said Kee.
‘Indeed I have. Larry, that For Sale sign outside the vicarage. It may be that your masters are trying to sell what is not theirs.'
'Not the old gift thing again, please, Edwin! A gift's a gift. You don't retain rights in it, especially not after two hundred years!'
‘If you're a hard-headed Yorkshireman, you may do,' said Digweed. 'The gift was made in consideration of the annual remission of tithes. It was a quid pro quo. Since the Tithe Act of 1936 it seems the Church has had the quid without the village getting its quo. The deed is clear on this point, that possession is only vested in the vicar so long as the Church keeps its side of the bargain. It is learned counsel's opinion that the vicarage may well belong to the village, not the Church.'
'But that's marvellous!' cried Fran, ‘It must be worth .. . how much were they asking, Larry?'
Lillingstone was looking less than happy at the news. He said, 'This will need some sorting out.. .'
‘It's all right, Larry,' said Digweed, ‘I'm sure the Parish Council will sell it back to the Church at a very reasonable rate. Then they can turn the new bungalow into the first of this low-cost housing they're always preaching about. But I'm not done yet. I dug the school records out of the Council archives and sent them to my friend at the same time.'
Don't tell me we own the school too?' said Kee.
‘If it ceases to be a school, we could do,' said Digweed. 'Stanley Harding saw to that. The land it was built on was part of the Green. The labour was the village's, the materials were paid for by local subscription, not least your dad's conscience money, Justin. And when the Local Authority took it over, Stanley Harding made damn sure, like the chap who drafted the deed of gift for the vicarage, that we didn't lose all rights in it.'
'So if they closed it, the County Council wouldn't be able to sell the site and building off ?' said Kee.
'Right. And that might just upset their calculations a little bit,' said Digweed.
Fran Harding threw her arms round his neck and hugged him joyfully. Over her shoulder he caught Wield's eye and grinned rather sheepishly.
'Well, I'm glad that's all sorted,' said Halavant. 'You know, it must be about a century and a half since a Halavant attended a Reckoning. I think I might just look in and see what all the fuss is about.'
'Oh God, the Reckoning!' shrieked Fran. 'Girlie will kill me. Harry, darling, you'll be OK? I have to go.'
She rushed away round the side of the house towards the lawn. The others too, reminded that they had civil and social responsibilities, began to follow.
'Sir,' said Pascoe. 'I think they're beginning to escape. What shall we do?'
'That'll likely be where the grub is, round there?'
‘I expect so.'
'Then what are we waiting for? Hot pursuit, lad. Hot pursuit!'
CHAPTER II
'I am afraid the young man has some of your family madness.'
And now the villagers began at last to sense that this year's Reckoning might hold some surprises, though none as yet could guess their full extent.
The first hint came when Girlie appeared and instead of taking her customary place in the factor's chair stood to one side. Behind her, looking very old, and assisted by Guy the Heir, came the Squire. Normally he didn't appear till the business was transacted and the feasting began. Now he allowed himself to be led to the table, seated himself in the only chair and watched with grey indifference as Guy somewhat officiously laid the estate ledgers before him and opened them at the requisite page.
Then Fran Harding appeared, and the villagers realized that they had missed seeing her hurrying around at Girlie's beck and call.
Her cousin watched her breathless approach with a stony face.
'Nice of you to come,' she said. 'I don't know how we've managed without you, but we have.'
'Oh, Girlie, I'm sorry ... I can explain .. .'
'What's to explain? You're a free agent. Obligations, responsibilities, desert, what the hell do things like that mean at Old Hall?'
There was a bitterness here which went beyond simple rebuke. Fran's attention had been so focused on her cousin that she hadn't noticed the Squire's presence till now.
'Girlie, what's happened? Why's Grunk collecting the rents?'
'He's entitled. They're his tenants, aren't they?'
The Squire had noticed Fran's arrival. He spoke briefly to Guy who came towards them.
'My favourite cousins!' he said with gushing mockery. 'Doesn't it give you a sense of the continuity of things, all the living Guillemards gathered here for this ancient ceremony? And I do mean all of them! I do so love history, the old traditions, that sort of thing. You too, I bet, Girlie?'
'Within reason,' she said w
ith cold control.
'But reason has prevailed, hasn't it, my sweet? Good try, though. I'd say better luck next time, only I don't think there's going to be a next time. Fran, the Squire was a tad distressed to find himself deserted by his little accompanist on this important day ...'
'Yes, I'm sorry, I'll go and tell...'
'No need. He's asked me to say that your services won't be required as he has decided to dispense with the promised performance of his ghastly ballad. Good Lord! What's he doing here? And him? And them?'
His voice rising in an accelerando of indignation was clearly audible in the hush which the latest arrivals had caused.
First, and the object of greatest amazement, was Justin Halavant. That he should be here at all was astounding. That he should be here hand in hand with Caddy Scudamore was as far beyond explanation as it was precedent.
Alone, the limping figure of Harry Bendish might have raised a groundswell of speculation. In the wake of history-in-the-making, he barely occasioned a ripple.
As for Kee, Larry, and the three policemen trailing along behind, they went almost unnoticed till the Vicar detached himself from the group and approached Mrs Pottinger with his message of hope. Soon the news was buzzing round the crowd. The vicarage belonged to the village .. . the school belonged to the village ... the Morris and Hall belonged to the village . . . the greater part of Mid-Yorkshire belonged to the village! But not for this did the Enscombians, who were quite capable of juggling three or even more rumours in the air at once, cease to conjure up speculation about Justin and Caddy, while still analysing the reasons for the unusual arrangements behind the big oak table.
Halavant, whose air of sang-froid concealed an uneasiness at the risk he ran of inspiring another Guillemard rebuke to match that which Jake had taken so badly all those years ago, advanced to the table, decided against offering his hand, but instead raised it and gave a cross between a friendly wave and a military salute to the Squire.
The old man gave him a puzzled frown and looked questioningly towards second slip. The village held its breath. The old man's gaze swung back, his hand rose to ear level, and the fingers twitched in a respondent wave.
The village breathed again, and voices rose up even more strongly as favourite theories were advanced and demolished. Then they were reduced to silence again as Guy the Heir banged his fist on the table and proclaimed that the Squire was now ready to collect his rents.
There weren't many of them and much of what there was was hardly worth collecting.
First to come forward were the pensioners to offer their pride-saving tokens. Next came a trio of smallholders who scratched a living out of poultry and rabbits and a few strips of vegetables. Then came the estate's cottagers, among them Elsie Toke, her myopic gaze still straining round in search of Jason. It was indeed rare that she was seen outside her home without her son, but her kindly friends and neighbours assured her the lad would be taking advantage of the occasion to pick up a few birds in the Squire's woods, and he'd be along just as soon as the Feast began.
Finally it was the turn of the farmers. Only three remained of the dozen or more who had once owed allegiance to the Old Hall estate. Like the others before them, they advanced in turn, declared the name of their property, paid their dues, watched while the payment was entered in the ledger, received formal thanks in their own name, then shook hands with the Squire in a gesture which owed more to feudal fealty than modern social convention.
George Creed was the last to come forward.
'Crag End,' he announced loud and clear, and laid his rent on the table.
Guy Guillemard picked up the cheque and took his time examining it, underlining his offensive intention by holding it up to the light like a dubious banknote.
Neither Creed nor the Squire paid any attention to his pantomime but regarded each other steadily till at last Guy made the entry in his ledger.
'Thank you, George Creed,' said the Squire.
'Thank you, Squire,' said Creed, taking the proffered hand.
They shook. Creed took a little step back, but the Squire held on and used the leverage of the other's grip to draw himself upright. The watching villagers, already alerted to the possibility of something out of the ordinary by the Squire's active participation, abandoned hope of immediate encounter with Dora Creed's confections and with quite a different appetite concentrated their attention on her brother.
'George, will you come round this side of the table. Please,' said the Squire.
Creed's eyes went from the Squire to Girlie. Then he nodded and went round the table, taking up a position between the woman and her grandfather.
'What's going off?' muttered Wield to Digweed while this was going on.
'I think,' said Digweed, 'that the Squire has at last discovered what most folk in the village have always known, that George Creed is his grandson.'
'By God,' said Wield. 'Rider Haggard never wrote owt like this. Does this mean that Guy the Heir's going to get disinherited?'
Digweed shook his head.
'God, His angels, and everyone in Enscombe would certainly like to see it, but I fear that natural justice has never figured large in the calculations of the English gentry. Bastards and daughters rate only slightly higher than the horses in the stables when it comes to inheritance. No, I suspect the worst. The Squire looks far too unhappy to be about to do something as enjoyable as ditching the ghastly Guy!'
It was true. The old man's face was set in the grim mask of one about to set foot on the scaffold. Curiously, it made him look younger. His back was straight, his eyes clear and his voice strong as he started to speak.
'My friends, you are welcome as always to this our traditional Reckoning. Once it was purely the occasion of necessary business with some equally necessary hospitality thrown in. For many years the business has contracted and could just as well be carried on in other more casual ways, but the hospitality, the coming together of village and hall, has grown in importance. This is far from being the only day on which we meet and enjoy each other's company. But it is a good day and one I should be reluctant to see disappear.'
There were several cries of 'Hear! Hear!' and a scattering of applause which he let die down before proceeding.
'Today, however, I do have some business to transact which can only be dealt with on such an occasion, because I want all of you who belong here in Enscombe to witness it. I have lately discovered what I dare say many of you have long known, or at least suspected. That George Creed here is my grandson.'
He paused. The absence of oohs and ahs confirmed his guess at general knowledge and he slowly nodded.
'I have always known him as a good tenant, a skilled farmer, and a fine man, so the discovery causes me no pain save that of not having the pleasure of this knowledge long ago. It also means I have another grand-daughter who happens to be the best baker in Yorkshire, so there's another cause of joy.'
He directed a smile of great charm towards Dora who was looking gobsmacked, then went on.
'Of course, I have already been blessed by one grand- daughter who has been to me and to Old Hall a tower of strength, a helpmeet, a friend. Without her .. . Well, I am not sure where we would be today without her.'
Girlie had lit her pipe and was hiding her emotions behind a cloud of smoke. George Creed reached out his hand and took hers, preparing those who needed to be prepared for what was to come next.
'So when, after telling me about George's relationship with me, she went on to tell me about her relationship with George, I could only be delighted for them both. For what she told me was that they are in love and intend to marry.'
More applause from the village, more gobsmackery from Dora. But the smile which had touched the Squire's thin lips faded quickly to prepare the watchers for bad news to come.
'But all this good news brought me sorrow too, for naturally, once I had digested it, my thoughts turned to the question of the inheritance of the estate. I had wrestled with this problem
before. My granddaughter has proved herself in every respect fit and worthy to run Old Hall. She has known all her life that she could never inherit, but not for this has she ever stinted her efforts on the family's behalf. And her great desert some few years ago made me debate whether the time had not come to cut through the old law of male primacy, bar the entail, and make her my heir. You see how freely I speak to you.'
This last was apparently addressed to the listening villagers, but to Pascoe it seemed that for a moment the old man's steady gaze moved away to that second slip with whom he seemed to be in such close communion.
Now it jerked back and he went on, 'But I felt that I who was Squire because my ancestors had stuck so rigidly to this tradition did not have any right to change it. By law, by custom, by right of birth, I had an heir and I would be doing him great wrong to disinherit him on a personal whim.'
Guy tried to look serious but only succeeded in looking smug. A couple of his colourful entourage clapped their hands but were quickly shushed by the others who were more sensitive to the mood of the meeting.
'But now,' resumed the Squire, 'I find I have a direct male descendant. What is more, a descendant who is soon to ally himself even more closely with the family by marrying my beloved granddaughter. The struggle is renewed, and you may imagine how much more fiercely it has raged this time even than last.'
'Always a lot easier to leave unwanted daughters out on the hillside to die,' murmured Digweed.
Wield didn't respond. He was concentrating all his attention on the drama going on behind the table.
'Yet basically I knew that nothing had changed. The laws of legitimacy are as strong as, indeed are an integral part of, the laws of male primogeniture. I am admitting you to the workings of my thought today because I want you to understand the workings of my heart also. Before you all I want to acknowledge, and to acknowledge with pleasure and pride, this man George Creed as my grandson. But equally, at the same time ...'
He paused. Guy the Heir was regarding him with rapt expectation. The villagers of Enscombe too were raptly expectant, but not, from their faces, of aught for their comfort.
Dalziel 14 Pictures of Perfection Page 27