by James Anson
Table of Contents
Part One – One Bright Morning
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Two – Second Round
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Part Three – In The Deep Midwinter
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Part Four – A Touch of Romance
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part One – One Bright Morning
Chapter One
Mr Halliwell handed the letter over. "This is their latest offer, Mr March. I think it unlikely they will increase the sum mentioned. I would advise you to accept."
Robert March, once a police officer and now a reasonably successful crime novelist, studied the page gloomily.
"I'm still not happy about those changes they've made," he complained. "Turning that poor down-trodden seamstress into a court dressmaker! Load of rubbish! I told 'em they were wrong but they didn't seem interested in the truth. Look at that film they made on Jack the Ripper. Just a load of crap!"
"I prefer not to," said Mr Halliwell. "I'm afraid the entertainment media prefer their crime with a ... certain gloss. The truth is so often undramatic, and in this case extremely sordid, too."
"Suppose so," said Robert. "Still, they can always read my book if they want to find out the truth. I'd just like them to get it right for once!"
"You will accept the offer then?" asked his literary agent.
"Yes. I need a decent sum of money right away. I'm going to move outside London. Was broken into again last week - made a hell of a mess. And the noise. I can't hear myself think some nights. I want to get out before I corner the market in Valium."
Mr Halliwell noticed that he was moving uneasily in his chair. "That leg giving you trouble again?" he asked.
"Yeah. I think it's the weather. Go ahead, tell 'em I accept - and to get their cheque through fast. I want to start house-hunting while I'm in the mood."
"Very well. I'll phone you as soon as everything is settled."
* * * * *
Mr March looked with distaste at the very bijou residence before him: passing overhead was Concorde. It did not add to the building's charms when you realised it was under a direct flight path to Heathrow.
"Look," said Robert with asperity, "when I said I didn't need a large place I did mean something bigger than a bloody dog kennel - and without a scenic view of the local gasworks. Not to mention that thing up there." He gestured after the inoffensive plane.
"You know, your descriptions of these places are the best fiction I've read in months. You should put in for the Booker Prize."
The estate agent looked harassed: it had been a very trying morning. "Well, sir, we do have one other place on our books that might suit you, but I'm afraid it's well off the motorway."
"As long as they still speak English out there I'll take a look at it," said Robert.
The village of Larton lacked tourist appeal, Robert noted with pleasure as they drove through it: no well-known person, he ascertained, had lived or died there; no battles had been fought in the vicinity; the buildings lacked architectural merit; the church, thanks to its Victorian restorers, would not be on anyone's top ten list, while the most that could be said for the Post Office cum General Store, the Brewers Arms and the Dissenting Chapel with the tin roof, was that they served their purpose. The village was not on the way to anywhere special and the nearest motorway link, by a happy chance, was a considerable distance away.
"Here we are," said Mr Milton, the estate agent, with what was patently false enthusiasm. He stopped the car and gestured towards a large house some way back from the road.
"Now that's Larton Manor. It's on our books too," he added hopefully.
"My God," said Robert reverently. "You'll have a job shifting that."
"Yes," replied the estate agent gloomily. "Sad to think that under that revolting Victorian Gothic are the remains of a quite pleasant Georgian manor house - riddled with dry rot, of course. The stable block is the best part of the house; it seems to have been the only part of the buildings that received any noticeable maintenance after 1900, apart from having main drainage laid on."
"I'm not buying it," said Robert with conviction. "Now, where's this lodge house?"
"Just a short way further down the road. It's a listed building now. Fortunately they couldn't afford to renovate it at the same time as the house - point in its favour now, of course. Damn!"
He braked sharply to avoid a horse turning suddenly into the road from a byway. The rider steadied his mount and proceeded to treat them to his opinion of their traffic sense.
From his seat Robert could see nothing but a booted leg in a stirrup and a prancing horse.
They moved on, stopping outside a small lodge house with a very overgrown garden.
Robert looked it over critically. It was not that big but roomier than many he'd seen so far, and while it needed some work done it shouldn't be too expensive.
"Is it on the main sewer?" he inquired. "I'm not having another septic tank - had one when I was a kid."
"Yes, Mr March, it is. Would you like to see inside?"
Robert entered, sniffing suspiciously for damp; the place smelled musty but reasonable. Inquiring about the damp course, he was assured a new one had been put in recently. He looked at the kitchen, which needed redecorating.
There's plenty of room for my books and files in the living-room and I could make that a through room, he thought. The bathroom would be adequate if I can get a decent shower put in - that bath looks like an antique.
He glanced into the large bedroom - the other so-called bedroom was more in the tiny boxroom league - and then prowled about some more.
"Subject to survey, I'll take it," he said finally. "It could be what I'm looking for - if the price is right. What about the other lodge?"
"Not for sale," said Mr Milton. "The previous owner of the manor lives there - the gentleman on the horse we met down the road. You have your own access to the road as you see."
"Good," said Robert. "I wouldn't like to keep falling over the lord of the manor. I'm not very good at touching my forelock."
* * * * *
Six months later Robert picked his way through the debris of what would be his kitchen and lit a cigarette; his doctor wouldn't have approved but it just might stop him taking an axe to Billie and Ted, who were companionably drinking their tea under the apple tree in his overgrown back garden.
Selling his London flat had been a breeze, people queuing up to buy what he'd always considered an undersized, badly-designed rabbit hutch with constant stereophonic sound from the neighbours at all hours. The owner of the other lodge had been equally willing to sell to him, just scrawling his signature at the foot of the deed before departing across the Irish Sea. Robert, who disapproved of the landed gentry, hoped he intended to stay there permanently.
But here he was, with his furniture in store, living in a genteel hotel in the nearby market town while waiting for Billie and Ted to get their bloody fingers out and get some work done!
Ted ambled in. "Getting on well, isn't it, Mr March?" he said, looking round complacently. "Expect you're looking forward to moving in. It's a nice little place. Now how about a dado over there?"
"I think not," said Robert, gritting his teeth. "How much longer is it going to take to get in here before the winter floods?"
> "Oh, just another week or two," said Ted vaguely. "Now we've got that wall down. That was a job. Built to last, that wall was."
Robert muttered darkly and took himself off to the local pub, whose main features were low ceilings and warm beer. He had already been tagged as the Londoner who had bought the East Lodge and did something odd for a living. He'd been uninformative on the subject and now sat listening to the local gossip: the manor had been bought by a rich Arab, or one of those pop stars, or was going to be used by the SAS for a new training-ground. Seeing Mr Milton later in the village, Robert inquired which, if any, of these stories were true.
"None, I'm afraid," said Mr Milton. "We may have to suggest to Mr Faulkner that he raffles the place at this rate. When he returns."
"Thought he'd left for good," said Robert. "Talk is, he was going to invest the cash from my place in a distillery. Well, that's one of the stories."
Mr Milton raised an eyebrow. "Ah, yes. He's an army officer; he should be back here very shortly."
That, as far as Robert was concerned, put the final nail in Mr Faulkner's coffin. He could just see him: red-faced, handlebar moustache, barking at everyone. Treating you like a very junior officer or worse, he thought.
Thankfully, the following week Mr Halliwell rang and suggested Mr March might consider a trip to New York over the book he was currently publishing. Robert agreed with alacrity. Mr Halliwell, later counting the cost of transatlantic phone calls to smooth ruffled feelings, reflected that he should have been warned by Mr March's unusual acquiescence to his suggestions.
However, when Robert returned to Larton, he found the work finished - and it was even to his satisfaction. After a few more hiccups he had his furniture moved in and settled down to enjoy a quiet country life.
Chapter Two
It was a fine sunny day at the end of August when, standing in the inevitable queue in the Post Office, Robert became aware of an excited voice behind him.
"Now we must be there early, Mabel. I've set my heart on the walnut tallboy and I know Mrs Harris has her eye on it too. She'd never get it through the door of her poky little cottage. Ideas above her station that one - talking about getting the crochet set too!"
Crochet set, mused Robert. Surely not ...
"Are you going to the sale too, Mr March?" asked the postmistress.
"What sale?" he asked.
The postmistress indicated a notice: 'Sale at Larton Manor. Thursday, 6th September. Furniture, Objets d'art, Books, Tools, Sundries, etc.'
"Might as well look in," said Robert. "Could pick up some bits and pieces."
"Not much chance of anything decent," snorted one old lady. "That lot never had two pennies to rub together. The old squire must have turned in his grave after they moved in. Not that she wasn't a lady, when she was there."
The postmistress smiled reminiscently. "I remember the parties they used to give, high old times we had."
"Chase anything in a skirt, those lads would," the old dame went on. "And their elder girl as bad over the boys. Not a word from their father - not that he could talk, not with Elsie Parsons - "
"Now, Mavis," said another voice, "that's just wild gossip, even if her Felicity did look the image of the colonel."
"And she's not the only one in this village with that face," said a sombre voice. "You can take a look at young Ashley for a start - "
Sadly, at that moment Robert received the stamps he had been waiting for and had to leave. It all still happened in the country, he noted - just that the news seemed to get round more.
In fact, the sale turned out better than anticipated. Robert acquired an armchair, a bookcase and a small table with some garden tools. He would have to do something with that nature reserve developing round his house, he decided. He was just arranging for the local carter to have the furniture delivered to his house when he overheard:
"Oh, mother, what did you get that for? It's all brown and horrible!"
"It looked better from a distance," came the disappointed answer.
Robert glanced at the painting in its dusty frame; it was just the size he liked for his Sunday painting.
"If you've changed your mind I'll have that," he said. "How much did you give for it?"
Fifty pence changed hands and he left with the painting under his arm. It was a week or two before he had time to examine it closely. He didn't like just to chuck someone else's hard work away, so he eased the painting from its frame carefully; the parts not obscured by the frame and the discoloured varnish didn't look bad at all: perhaps it would be worth getting it cleaned and reframed. He would ask Marion next time he was in London, he decided.
* * * * *
Marion studied the painting closely. "Well, it's not a missing old master, if you were hoping," she remarked, "but I do think it's definitely worth cleaning. Would you like me to do it?"
"Yes," said Robert. "I picked it up at a sale. It must be of one of the family who owned the manor, I suppose. I'll pick it up at the end of the month when I have to come up to collect the proofs. Will that be all right?"
"Yes, that will give me enough time. It's very quiet here at the moment. How are you settling in? Not missing the rich variety of London life? Simon was mugged again last month -not hurt badly, thank God."
"Not missing a damn thing," said Robert fervently. "Should have moved out years ago."
* * * * *
It was six weeks before Robert returned to the studio.
"I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you," said Marion. "Your painting is ready." She showed him the now cleaned and reframed painting on the wall. "What do you think of it?" she asked.
"Hey, not bad at all," said Robert. "Best fifty pence I've spent in a long time."
"And my fee," said Marion. "You wouldn't consider selling him, would you? I've become very fond of looking at him hanging there. I checked the artist's name - he was a reasonably good portrait painter of the time - and asked a friend of mine if there is a list of his paintings, to help you identify the sitter. Handsome, isn't he?"
"If you like the pretty type," said Robert. "No, he's not for sale. I'll tell people he was my great-great-grandfather who threw away the family fortune at Crockford's, then went out and shot himself."
"You would too," said Marion laughing. "If I find out any more I'll let you know. Look after yourself, Rob."
The painting seemed to settle down at once on Robert's study wall. He was looking at it late one afternoon, distracted from his proof-reading.
Wonder what you did do, he said to himself. Regency costume's very fancy - diced with Prinny at Brighton, or just vegetated down here? I'd like to know some time. Oh hell! He turned reluctantly back to his checking. I'll never get done at this rate. Make some tea, then I'll get stuck in.
There was a knock on the door. Robert opened it and stood transfixed. Apart from the clothes it could have been the man in the painting on his doorstep.
"Excuse me, you are Mr March?"
He nodded.
"I believe you purchased a painting at the manor sale recently. It was included in error. I would like to discuss buying it from you. My name is Michael Faulkner."
"Ah," said Robert. "Family that owned the manor. You'd better come in then: we can talk about it."
Mr Faulkner entered and stared at the painting. "It's been cleaned," he remarked.
"Yes. Come up well, hasn't it?" said Robert. "Good-looking lad. Relation of yours, is he?"
Mr Faulkner went rather pink. "A distant one," he said.
"I was just putting the kettle on," said Robert. "Care for a cup of tea?" He shifted four books from a chair to the already overflowing table and removed three dirty cups; his visitor's face remained studiously blank.
"I'll just rinse these through," said Robert. "I thought you were in Ireland; army man, I heard."
"Yes," said Mr Faulkner. "I'm on leave at the moment."
Can tell, thought Robert. All spit and polish, for all that those clothes have seen bette
r days. But so like the painting: dark hair, blue eyes. But not that wistful look; heavier build too, and a very stubborn set to that jaw. Definitely military, Faulkner seemed to fill the small room.
"Here you are." Robert passed his visitor a cup of tea. "Cake's in that tin."
"Thank you." Mr Faulkner ignored the cake. "Would you consider selling the painting back to me?"
"Have to think about that," said Robert. "I've got quite fond of him. Lends my place a touch of class; was going to pass him off as my great etc. grandfather. Now I've seen you, that could be difficult. Why do you want him back anyway? You hadn't looked after the painting at all! Cost a bob or two to get him cleaned up. What was he, black sheep or something?"
Mr Faulkner's face was glacial. "Nothing of the kind," he said. "The painting had merely been overlooked. I heard you were from London, Mr March?" His tone added, And no better than I expected. "This is your weekend cottage, I suppose?"
"No," said Robert, "this is my home. You live at West Lodge, don't you - place that looks as though it's blancoed every morning? Must be difficult for an old family like yours to have to - "
Mr Faulkner rose. "I can see you're busy. I won't take up any more of your time. If you do decide to sell the painting, well, you know where I live. Good afternoon."
Robert watched him go. "Stiff-necked sod. Thought I'd just hand you over, touching my forelock," he remarked to the painting. "Didn't want to go with him, did you? He'll be a lot tougher than you, my lad, for all he has the same handsome face."
However, after a night's sleep the March conscience - always a problem - was in full cry. He had not behaved well and Mr Faulkner had been civil enough - for one of his sort.
Must have caught me at a bad moment. Better walk over and explain I've become attached to the painting. Don't really need to go at all, he told himself. Ah, but you're curious about him, aren't you - and the painting. Can't stop being a bloody detective.
Mind made up, he glanced at the sky. It looked like a fine day: he'd walk over the fields to West Lodge.
Hope they never build on here, he thought as he walked along, then stumbled over a tree root, wrenching his leg. He stood swearing a moment, then walked on. The front garden of the lodge looked as if it had been brushed and combed, reminding him he hadn't put a fork to his patch yet. A large cat looked at him suspiciously from one of the small front windows. He knocked; there was no answer. He made his way round the back; Mr Faulkner was at the end of the long garden, wrestling with some bushes. Robert sauntered down to him.