The Larton Chronicles

by James Anson

  Michael came in with a tray and two steaming mugs of coffee. "Yes, had us all scrubbed up one Christmas and took that. I'm the one with an arm in a sling. Here's your coffee."

  Robert sipped appreciatively. "Hum, I like the additives, Mike, but I took a pill in the car - won't be able to drive home. 'Fraid you've got an overnight guest."

  "Rob, you all right?" Michael was aghast.

  "Sure, just have a good sleep ..." Robert settled down and dozed, vaguely hearing Michael ring Dr Ryan who appeared to ascertain just how much whiskey had been added to the coffee and assured Michael that all Robert was likely to do was sleep the clock round.

  * * * * *

  To his surprise Robert woke in bed, in his briefs, in a strange room. Remembering where he was he got up and inspected the bookcase, which was overflowing like all the others in the house. Some children's books on the lowest shelf caught his eye and he pulled one out; it was battered but the illustrations had charm. Turning to the flyleaf, he saw the carefully written inscription: 'Michael Faulkner, his book, Killala, Galway'.

  Smiling, he put it back, then glanced at the watercolour over the bookcase: a square Georgian house in a very romantic landscape. Killala? he wondered. It was signed W.B.

  If it's Michael's he draws better than me, he thought, as the smell of bacon drifted up into the room.

  "Breakfast is ready, Robert."

  "I'll be down," called Robert. After a quick wash, he went down.

  "Heard you moving about," said Michael, passing him a well-filled plate. "How's the leg?"

  "Much better. Thanks for putting me to bed. That looks good, I'm feeling hungry."

  Michael watched with approval as Robert cleared his plate.

  "The painting over the bookcase in my room - is that Killala?" Robert asked.

  "Always the policeman. Yes, it is. A rich American film producer lives there now. He's put in sunken baths, the lot, they say."

  "Your family don't own it any more then?" Robert asked.

  "No, couldn't keep it up when we did - always full of bicycles, wet dogs, with rain coming through the roof. It was a relief to Pa when he inherited the English property with a small amount of money - enough to transport us all to England and - he hoped - fame and fortune. None of us wanted to go except Agnes. She wanted to marry a duke ... strange girl. Mother kept going back to Ireland; she never settled here really. More coffee?"

  Chapter Four

  Five months later, visiting the farm shop one afternoon, Robert noticed Ashley sponging down a very depressed-looking Bodger.

  "Got to look his best for the show," said Ashley.

  Robert considered Bodger didn't have a 'best', so he collected his eggs and returned home to get down to some work or research which might, he hoped, lead to an idea for his next book. He noticed from the local paper that a celebrity was coming to open the village fête. The name given surprised him; he hadn't heard the lady was in the country.

  The night before the show Robert had a telephone call from the vicar.

  "Mr March, I just wanted to ring and thank you for so gallantly stepping into the breach. It's very gratifying when newcomers to the village take an interest in our little affairs. We will see you at ten o'clock tomorrow then, at the vicarage?"

  Bemused, Robert said, yes, they would, wondering what was going on.

  He arrived at the vicarage, was given a stiff drink and informed that he had apparently volunteered to open the fête in the unfortunate absence of Miss Parton.

  Robert said he hoped no one would be disappointed at his substitution and was eventually introduced to the crowd as 'our well-known local author', which he thought was over the top. He opened the proceedings with aplomb, cheered by the thought that a copy of the local paper plus smudgy photos might persuade Mr Halliwell that he had done his bit in the way of publicity for the year. Discovering that Michael had kindly volunteered his name as opener, he set out to find and kill him.

  He ran him to earth at the Pony Club stand, where he was holding down a very fractious Bodger, mane plaited and groomed to within an inch of his life.

  "Ashley!" Michael was yelling. "Hurry up!"

  A very flurried Ashley appeared. "I can't get my breeches right," he moaned.

  "Robert, would you fix him? I can't let go of Bodger - he hates shows."

  Robert spared Bodger a look of sympathy and considered the problem. Ashley was clutching an over-large pair of breeches that reached his armpits.

  "I'm growing into them," he said gloomily.

  Robert hoisted him off his feet in his efforts, but eventually he was put to rights, tossed up onto Bodger and went into his class. Michael sighed with relief.

  "Jess is working in the tea tent. Mrs Dixon scalded her leg," he remarked. "You did that opening very well, by the way."

  "Owe you for that," said Robert menacingly.

  "Needed a celebrity, didn't we?" said Michael. "Only right I should volunteer you.

  Come on, I'll introduce you to Amy. She's here today - finally got her leg down."

  "Is that the one you're keeping company with?" asked Robert. "I hear your names linked all over the village."

  Michael assumed a wistful expression. "It's a sad story really," he began. "Childhood sweethearts, roaming the fields together, hand in hand, gathering primroses, little knowing what the future would bring ..."

  "I think I'm going to be sick," announced Robert.

  "Then," continued Michael, undeterred, "one day I realised my little Daisy - I called her Daisy - had grown into a beautiful young woman. Overcome, I proposed."

  "What?" asked Robert.

  Michael ignored him. "But her stony-hearted father refused his consent. Broken-hearted I went off into the desert to forget ..."

  "I shouldn't try to sell it to Mills & Boon," said Robert. "Much too sickly for them.

  So why doesn't he like you - because you're immoral, penniless or papist?"

  "Shot one of his homing pigeons," said Michael. "Mama was going through one of her Lady of the Manor phases and sent Pa out to get two dozen grouse; he put the money on a very slow horse at Wincanton. So I went out to bag some wood pigeons - Mama was going to disguise them. I hit one of the vicar's homers instead. It wouldn't have been so bad if Cook hadn't served it up to him with the ring still on its leg."

  "Mike! That's awful - poor little sod," said Robert.

  "Then," Michael went on, "we thought of eloping but, well, things were never right: the hunting season, my army service, the Girl Guide meetings. Ah, there she is now ..."

  Robert had been expecting a younger version of Maud, the hard-bitten joint Master of the drag hounds, but Miss Amy Chaffinch had a gentle, dreamy look, as though she had stepped straight from the pages of a novel by Miss C.M. Yonge. She bent a soft eye on Robert, who was impressed: Michael was showing more taste than he expected.

  "Rob, this is Miss Amy Chaffinch. Amy, Robert March, our new neighbour."

  "Mickey has told me so much about you," said Amy, smiling at Robert.

  "Has he?" he replied warily.

  "Well, I'll leave you two to talk about your bad legs," said Michael. "I better go and check on Ashley."

  Amy gazed after him.

  "Mickey is such a shit," she remarked. "Don't believe a word the lying bastard tells you."

  "Er, no," said Robert. "I hope your leg is better now?"

  "Still stiff, but at least I'm up on it again. Missed half the season. Crock yours up hunting too?"

  "No," said Robert, "my last job. Would you care for a drink?"

  "I'd love one. Tent's that way. Michael will be stuck with that brat Ashley for hours. I have him in my Sunday School class. Should have been drowned at birth."

  Several drinks later Robert was revising his first impression of Amy Chaffinch; he wasn't used to well-bred girls who laid a confiding hand on your knee, while looking like the Blessed Damozel and sinking double whiskies with ease and no apparent effect.

  Michael rejoined them. "He took two
seconds," he remarked. "Would have had a first, but he was disqualified for calling Elsie Best a silly moo when she didn't remount fast enough. Not buying her drinks are you, Robert? She'll cost you a fortune."

  "Mr March is a gentleman," said Amy. "It makes a refreshing change from sods like you. Come on, Michael, get your wallet out. It's your round."

  "All right. What are you having, Robert?"

  "Nothing now. Are you sure you two were planning to elope?"

  "Lying bastard," said Amy, landing Michael a hard thump between the shoulder blades. "What have you been telling this poor man? Robert, dear," she tucked an arm around him, "I wouldn't cross the street with Mickey, let alone marry him! Now are you coming to the dance tonight?"

  "I don't dance," said Robert firmly.

  "You don't have to," said Amy briskly. "Just sit and meet everyone."

  "Amy," said Michael, "he doesn't want to meet people, let him alone."

  "Look out - father," said Amy. Slipping her glass into Robert's hand, she and Michael melted into the crowd.

  "Ah, Mr March," said the vicar. "I've been looking for you. Do come and meet some of your neighbours. I had expected my daughter to be here to take you round - no doubt she is engaged in some good work somewhere."

  "No doubt," said Robert.

  An hour later he found himself in the tea tent, consuming a large salad batch and warding off an attempt to sell him a dozen Aylesbury ducklings (live); he had also agreed to look in on the dance.

  The dance was held in the great barn at Highgreen Farm, with a buffet and bar laid on; as he arrived he noticed the extra lighting around the farmyard. Ashley hurried past him with a great tray of sandwiches, followed by his mother with an equally large tray of sliced ham.

  "Glad you could come, Mr March," she called. "Mike is at the bar."

  Where else? thought Robert. When he found him, Michael was resplendent in his best Hunt jacket, complete with ruffled stock.

  "Oh, very pretty," Robert remarked. "On loan from Moss Bros, are you?"

  "Have to be back in the window at twelve," said Michael sadly. "Come on, I'll introduce you around."

  Michael, Robert noticed with amusement, was playing the village squire to the life.

  When Amy arrived, dressed to the nines, Robert realised he was beginning to dislike her.

  Maybe it was the way she looked at Michael as though he was prime steak - when she wasn't hitting him. Her behaviour was getting to him. Not that it's my business, Robert reminded himself. Mike's certainly old enough to look after himself - if he wants to.

  After a chat with various people, Robert made his way to the buffet to find Ashley at his elbow. "Mother says if you'd like to come over to the kitchen you can have supper with us. It's better than this," he added candidly.

  Deciding Ashley could well have a point, Robert made his way across to the farm kitchen to find Jess dishing up a large cheese and onion pie to a few friends. Michael was also there, sitting by the fire, looking tired.

  "There you are, Mr March," said Jess, setting a plate in front of him. "I didn't think you'd want to stay too long, and you'll enjoy a meal here more than in the crush."

  She went across to Michael with a plate of food. Robert watched her talk to him quietly for a moment. Michael grinned at her and then started to eat.

  Curiouser and curiouser, thought Robert, and where is the awful Amy?

  "Are you going to write a book about the village?"

  Robert started and found his table companion, whom he recognised as Fred Stebbins, gazing at him, fork in hand.

  "Not unless anything of a criminal nature happened here," said Robert, "and it's an interesting crime. I'm not into writing guidebooks yet," he added moodily.

  Fred thought a moment. "Nathaniel Bolton," he said. "We never did find out what happened to him."

  "When did this happen?"

  "Oh, years ago," said Fred. "A local farmer was found murdered and Bolton was hanged for it. Swore his innocence up to the last. Mike can show you where he was hanged, up on the hill. Pleasant ride up there, it is, in the summer." He turned back to his pie.

  Jessie looked over. "Any more, Mr March?"

  He passed his plate over. Michael seemed to have left; gone back to the frolic, he supposed. He must ask him about the murder.

  When he arrived home Robert quickly noted down the facts - if they were that - which Fred had mentioned, then glanced through his stock of books without finding anything to help his researches.

  Waking early the next day, he had a good breakfast before making a list of things to do. There was a knock on his open kitchen door.

  Robert glanced up. "My God, you give a whole new meaning to the word dissipated," he remarked. "Well, come in, stop leaning on the door."

  Michael made his way carefully to a chair, then tried to focus on Robert, who fixed him with a glittering eye.

  "Mike," he said, "what do you know about Nathaniel Bolton and the murder of Oliver Fleming?"

  Michael blinked. "I didn't have anything to do with it," he said with an effort.

  Robert looked at him and sighed. "Just hold your head on a moment and I'll make some coffee. Can see you're not going to be any help until we shift that hangover."

  He made coffee and passed Michael a large mugful.

  "Here, you better have some aspirin with that." He tossed a couple over.

  Michael automatically swallowed them. "That will be eight this morning," he remarked, "if the first two were aspirin. I couldn't be sure, the label kept swimming about."

  "I suppose you were one of the idiots keeping me awake till 3 a.m.," said Robert.

  "Probably," said Michael. "I can't remember. Think Amy took me home - at least I hope it was her pulling my boots off in the early hours."

  "You drink too much," said Robert. "Look, you'd better go upstairs and try and sleep it off. I'll put a meal on for us later - want to have a talk with you."

  Michael looked up the stairs. "Don't think I can make it that far."

  "Come on then, I'll get you to bed." Robert began to help his fuddled guest up the stairs.

  "At last," said Michael, "all my fantasies are realised."

  Robert, steering him with difficulty into the bedroom, sighed. "Mike, you're not capable of enacting any of 'em at the moment, so shut up."

  Michael, collapsing onto the bed clutching his head, was inclined to agree. Robert briskly pulled off his jacket and boots and left him to deal with the rest. After half an hour he looked in to find Michael sound asleep.

  Going to dry you out if it's the last thing I do, he thought. No good expecting Amy to: she probably sinks more than you do. God knows why I want to waste my time.

  There was a knock on the door, the postman bringing another parcel of proofs to be gone through.

  "Heard about the fight, Mr March - after the dance? Two arrests. They say there was blood all over the place."

  "No," said Robert, and the postman left.

  He glanced through the parcel and found a note from Mr Halliwell: 'This should be the last batch. Please don't decide to rewrite the whole book, will you.' Robert grinned and tossed the package onto the sofa as the telephone rang.

  "Oh, Mr March, it's Amy Chaffinch. Is Mickey with you?"

  "Yes, he is," said Robert, "and he's asleep."

  "Oh, that's all right. Just tell him I called, and not to worry, everything is all right. You won't forget?"

  "No," said Robert. "Bugger," he added, as he put the phone down.

  After an hour or two he heard Michael in the bathroom and set to making a light lunch for them both. Michael appeared looking much brighter.

  "I took a shower," he said. "Thanks for the help."

  Robert nodded. "There was a phone call for you. Amy. She said not to worry, everything is all right."

  "About what?" asked Michael in surprise.

  "No idea. She seemed to think you'd know."

  "Well I don't," said Michael. "Probably better that way."

 
"I'm making lunch. Do you feel like eating now?"

  "Yes. I'm surprised you haven't thrown me out."

  "Planning to reform you, aren't I?" said Robert.

  "Wasting your time," said Michael. "I enjoy being a social menace."

  "That's all right, I go in for hopeless causes - used to be a Jacobite."

  "I didn't realise you could cook," said Michael as they settled to eat.

  "I had to learn, being on my own. I wasn't going to keep spending money in lousy restaurants," said Robert. "I'm thinking of looking into the case of Nathaniel Bolton. What can you tell me about it?"

  Michael thought for a moment. "There's a book on it in one of the trunks at home - read it once. As I remember, this man disappeared and they thought he'd been murdered; hanged three people for it - the woman was said to be a witch. Then the bloke turned up again, gave everyone a shock. He said he'd been sold into slavery - as he was in his seventies it seems unlikely."

  "You're making that up," said Robert. "Amy warned me about you."

  "No, straight up, it's in the book. Oh, I remember ... His wife hanged herself when she found she wasn't a widow! 'A snotty, covetous puritan,' they said." He grinned at Robert.

  "Papist sot," Robert returned amiably. "I better have a look at that book. If it's been gone into before I'm not sure I want to tackle it. Well," he looked at Michael, "when can I get to see it?"

  "What, now?" said Michael. "Took me all my time to find my front door this morning. Not sure I can face looking through six trunks of books in my loft."

  "Six trunks!" said Robert. "You've been keeping them quiet. You have six trunks of books?"

  "At least," said Michael. "Couldn't decide what to sell so I kept most of the library from the manor. Charlie took Pa's regimental history collection, Agnes took the romances - there were stacks of them - and I took the rest. No good thinking of finding a Second Folio - I've already been through them for that."

  "We could go over and start sorting through them this afternoon," said Robert.

  Michael looked at him in horror. "Are you always this energetic? I was planning on having a long rest."

  "Nonsense," said Robert. "A little activity will do you the world of good. Besides, I need a research assistant on this one - someone who knows the area - take me around. Fred says it's a good ride up to Broadway."