Fox Evil

8

Wolfie was curled under a blanket in a corner of the bus, cradling a fox's brush against his mouth. It was soft, like a teddy bear's fur, and he sucked his thumb surreptitiously behind it. He was so hungry. His dreams were always about food. Fox had been ignoring him since his mother and brother had vanished. That was a long time ago-weeks maybe-and Wolfie still didn't know where they were or why they'd gone. Once in a while a lingering terror at the back of his mind told him he did know, but he avoided visiting it. It had something to do with Fox razoring off his dreadlocks, he thought.

He had cried for days, beseeching Fox to let him go, too, till Fox threatened him with the razor. After that, he'd hidden under the blanket and kept his mouth shut while he made fantasy plans about running away. As yet, he hadn't found the courage-his fear of Fox, the police, and social workers, his fear of everything-was too ingrained, but he'd leave one day, he promised himself.

Half the time his father forgot he was there. Like now. Fox had brought some of the others from the camp into the bus, and they were drawing up a twenty-four-hour rota to guard the entrance to the site. Wolfie, lying as still as a terrified mouse, thought his father sounded like a general instructing his troops. Do this. Do that. I'm the boss. But Wolfie was worried because the people kept contradicting him. Did they know about the razor, he wondered?

"Whichever way you look at it, we've got seven days before anyone takes action," said Fox, "and by then we'll have turned this place into a fortress."

"Yeah, well, you'd better be right about there being no owner," came a woman's voice, '"coz I sure as hell don't fancy breaking my back to build a stockade just to have bulldozers break it down the day after it's finished. Plus, it's fucking freezing out there, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I am right, Bella. I know this place. Dick Weldon had a try at enclosing it three years ago but gave up because he wasn't prepared to pay a fortune in legal fees with no guarantee that he'd win. The same'll happen now. Even if the rest of the village agrees to let him stake a claim to this land, he'll still have to pay a solicitor to force us out and he's not that altruistic."

"What if they all gang up together?"

"They won't. Not in the short term, anyway. There are too many conflicting interests."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

There was a short silence.

"Come on, Fox, give," said a man. "What's your connection with Shenstead? Did you live here? What do you know that the rest of us don't?"

"None of your business,"

"Sure it's our business," said the other man, his voice rising angrily. "We're taking a hell of a lot on trust here. Who's to say the filth won't come in and arrest us for trespass? First you want us to rope the place off… then turn it into a fortress… And all for what? A million-to-one gamble that in twelve years anything we've built on it will be ours? The odds suck. When you put it to us back in August, you said it was open countryside… land for the taking. There was no mention of a fucking village rammed up against it."

"Shut up, Ivo," said another woman. "It's a short-arse Welsh thing," she added for the benefit of the rest. "He's always picking fights."

"I'll pick one with you if you're not careful, Zadie," said Ivo furiously.

"Enough. The odds are good." There was a steely edge to Fox's voice that sent shivers up Wolfie's spine. If the other bloke didn't shut up, his dad would bring out his razor. "There are only four houses permanently occupied in this village-the Manor, Shenstead House, Manor Lodge, and Paddock View. Otherwise it's weekenders or rentals… and they won't get exercised till women come down for extended breaks in the summer and start complaining to their husbands about their kids consorting with the trash at the Copse."

"What about the farms?" asked Bella.

"The only one that matters is Dick Weldon's. His land makes up most of the boundary, but I know for a fact there aren't any documents to prove Shenstead Farm ever owned it."

"How?"

"Not your business. Just accept that I do."

"What about that house we can see through the trees?"

"The Manor. There's an old man living there on his own. He won't be giving us any trouble."

"How do you know?" It was Ivo's voice again.

"I just do."

"Jesus Christ!" There was the sound of a fist thumping on the table. "Can't you say anything else?" Ivo fell into mimicry of Fox's more educated tones. '"I just do… not your business… accept it.' What's the deal, man? Because I'm telling you now, I'm not hanging around listening to you spout crap without some fucking explanations. For starters, why won't this old guy give us any trouble? I sure as hell would if I lived in a manor and some New Agers moved onto my turf."

Fox didn't answer immediately and Wolfie closed his eyes in fright, picturing him slicing at the other man's face. But the expected screams didn't come. "He knows this land doesn't belong to him," said Fox calmly. "He had his solicitors look into it when Weldon tried to take it, but there are no documents supporting his claim either. The reason we're here now is because he's the only person with enough money to foot the bill for the rest of them… and he won't do it. Might have done a year ago. Not now."

"Why not?"

Another short silence. "I suppose you'll hear soon enough. The rest think he murdered his wife and they're trying to have him arrested. He's a recluse, doesn't go out anymore, doesn't see anyone… his food's delivered to the door. He's not going to bother us… not with the problems he's got."

"Shit!" said Bella in astonishment. "Did he do it?"

"Who cares?" said Fox indifferently.

"Maybe I do. Maybe he's dangerous. What about the kids?"

"If you're worried, tell them to steer clear of that side of the wood. He only ever comes out at night."

"Shit!" she said again. "He sounds like some sort of weirdo. Why isn't he in a loony bin?"

"There aren't any left," said Fox dismissively.

"How old is he?"

"Eighty-odd."

"What's his name?"

"What the hell does it matter what his name is?" snapped Fox. "You won't be talking to him."

"So? Maybe I want to know who he is when he's talked about. It's not a secret, is it?" She paused. "Well, well… perhaps it is at that. Know him from before, do you, Fox? He the one give you all this information?"

"I've never met him in my life… I just know a hell of a lot about him. How is none of your business."

"Sure. What's his name then?"

"Lockyer fucking Fox. Satisfied?"

There was a ripple of laughter.

"Worried about the competition, are you?" said the woman. "Reckon there ain't room for two foxes in this place, maybe?"

"Shut up, Bella," said Fox with the edge back in his voice.

"Yeah… yeah. It was a joke, sweetheart. You've gotta learn to relax… get stoned… take happy pills. We're with you, darlin'… all the way. You've just gotta trust us."

"Obey the rules and I will. Break them and I won't. First rule, everyone works to the rota and no one shirks their turn. Second rule, no one fucks with the locals. Third rule, no one leaves this campsite after dark…"

Wolfie crawled out from his hiding place when he heard the bus door close and tiptoed to one of the windows overlooking the entrance to the Copse. It was hung with fox brushes, and he pushed them aside to watch his father take up position behind the rope barrier. There was so much he didn't understand. Who were these people in the other buses? Where had Fox found them? What were they doing there? Why weren't his mother and brother with them? Why were they building a fortress?

He pressed his forehead to the glass and tried to find meaning in what he'd heard. He knew that Fox's full name was Fox Evil. He had asked his mother once if that meant Evil was his surname, too, but she'd laughed and told him, no, you're just Wolfie. Only Fox is Evil. From then on, Wolfie transposed the words and thought of his father as Evil Fox. To his child's mind, always seeking balance and answers, it made more sense than Fox Evil, and Fox immediately assumed the virtue of a surname.

But who was this old man called Lucky Fox? And how could his father not know him if they had the same name? Excitement and fear collided in the child's heart. Excitement that Lucky Fox might be related to him… might even know where his mother was; fear of a murderer…

Mark retreated, closing the drawing-room door quietly behind him. He turned to the visitor with an apologetic smile. "Would you mind if we left the introductions for a few minutes? James is… er…" He broke off. "Look, I know he's going to be thrilled to see you, but just at the moment he's asleep."

Nancy had seen more than Mark realized and nodded immediately. "Why don't I come back after lunch? It's no trouble. I need to book into Bovington Army Camp by five o'clock this evening… but there's nothing to stop me doing it now. I can come back later." This was far more embarrassing than she'd imagined it would be. She certainly hadn't expected Mark Ankerton to be there. "I should have rung first," she finished lamely.

He wondered why she hadn't. The number was in the book. "Not at all." He placed himself between her and the front door as if afraid she might make a run for it. "Please don't go. James would be devastated." He gestured to a corridor on the right, rushing his words to make her feel welcome. "Let's go down to the kitchen. It's warm in there. I can make you a cup of coffee while we wait for him to wake up. It shouldn't be more than ten minutes or so."

She allowed herself to be shepherded forward. "I lost my nerve at the last minute," she admitted, answering his unspoken question. "It was all rather spur of the moment and I didn't think he'd appreciate a phone call last night or first thing this morning. I had visions of it getting very complicated if he didn't catch on to who I was. I thought it would be easier to come in person."

"It's not a problem," Mark assured her, opening the kitchen door. "It's the best Christmas present he could have had."

But was it? Mark hoped his anxiety wasn't showing for he had no idea how James was going to react. Would he be pleased? Would he be afraid? What would a DNA test show? The timing was crazy. He could pluck a hair from Nancy's shoulder and she wouldn't even know he'd done it. The smile froze on his face as he looked into her eyes. God, they were so like James's!

Discomfited by his stare, Nancy pulled off her woollen hat and fluffed her dark hair with her fingertips. It was a feminine gesture that belied the otherwise masculine way she was dressed. Thick fleece over a polo-neck jumper, cargo trousers tucked into heavy boots, all black. It was an interesting choice, particularly as she was visiting an elderly man whose tastes and opinions on dress and behavior were bound to be conservative.

Mark guessed it was a deliberate challenge to James's willingness to accept her because it said effectively, no compromise. Take me as I am or not at all. If a butch-looking woman doesn't fit the Lockyer-Fox mold, then tough shit. If you expected me to woo you with feminine charm, think again. If you wanted a manipulable granddaughter, forget it. The irony was that, quite unconsciously, she had presented herself as the antithesis of her mother.

"I'm on temporary secondment to Bovington as an instructor in field operations in Kosovo," she told him, "and when I looked at the map… well… I thought if I left at the crack of dawn I could use today…" She broke off to give an embarrassed shrug. "I didn't realize he had guests. If there'd been cars in the drive I wouldn't have rung the bell, but as there weren't…"

Mark made what he could of this. "Mine's in a garage at the back, and he and I are the only ones here. Truly, Captain Smith, this is-" he sought for a word that would put her at ease-"brilliant. You've no idea how brilliant, as a matter of fact. This is his first Christmas since Ailsa died. He's putting on a damn good show, but having your solicitor to stay isn't much of a replacement for a wife." He pulled out a chair for her. "Please. How do you like your coffee?"

The kitchen was warmed by an Aga, and Nancy could feel herself blushing in the heat. Her awkwardness deepened. She couldn't have picked a worse time to walk in unannounced. She imagined the Colonel's shame if he came looking for Mark with the tears still in his eyes and found her sitting at the table. "Actually, I don't think this is a good idea," she said abruptly. "I saw him over your shoulder, and he's not asleep. Supposing he wonders where you are? It'll devastate him to find me here." She glanced toward a door in the corner. "If that leads outside I can sneak away without him ever knowing I was here."

Perhaps Mark, too, was having second thoughts because he looked irresolutely toward the corridor. "He's having a pretty bad time of it," he said. "I don't think he's sleeping much."

She pulled on her hat again. "I'll come back in two hours, but I'll phone first to give him time to compose himself. It's what I should have done this time."

He searched her face for a moment. "No," he said, taking her lightly by the arm and turning her toward the corridor. "I don't trust you not to change your mind. My coat and wellies are in the scullery and the door from there takes us out on the other side from James. We'll go for a walk instead, blow the cobwebs away after your drive. We can take a discreet look through the drawing-room window in half an hour to see how he's getting on. How does that sound?"

She relaxed immediately. "Good," she said. "I'm much better at walking than coping with uncomfortable social situations."

He laughed. "Me, too. This way." He turned to the right and took her into a room with an old stone sink on one side and a litter of boots, horse blankets, waterproofs, and ulsters on the other. The floor was covered with lumps of mud that had dropped from the treads of rubber soles, and dust and grime had accumulated in the sink and on the draining board and windowsills.

"It's a bit of a mess," he apologized, swapping his Gucci loafers for some old Wellingtons, and shrugging into a Dryzabone oilskin. "I sometimes think everyone who's ever lived here has abandoned bits of themselves as proof of passage." He flicked an ancient brown ulster hanging from a peg. "This belonged to James's great-grandfather. It's been hanging here for as long as James can remember, but he says he likes to see it every day… it gives him a sense of continuity."

He opened the outer door on to a walled courtyard and ushered Nancy through. "Ailsa called this her Italian garden," he said, nodding to the large terra-cotta urns that were scattered around it. "It's a bit of a suntrap on a summer evening and she used to grow night-scented flowers in these pots. She always said it was a pity it was at the scrag-end of the Manor because it was the nicest place to sit. That's the back of the garage." He nodded to a single-storey building to their right. "And this-" he lifted the latch of an arched wooden door in a wall ahead of them-"leads into the kitchen garden."

The courtyard looked curiously neglected, as if it hadn't been entered since the death of its mistress. Weeds grew in profusion between the cobbles, and the terra-cotta tubs contained only the brittle skeletons of long-dead plants. Mark seemed to take it for granted that Nancy knew who Ailsa was, even though he hadn't told her, and Nancy wondered if he knew about the Colonel's letters.

"Does James have any help?" she asked, following him into the vegetable garden.

"Only an elderly couple from the village… Bob and Vera Dawson. He does the gardening and she does the cleaning. The trouble is, they're almost as old as James, so not much gets done. As you can see." He gestured 'round the overgrown vegetable garden. "I think mowing the lawn is about all Bob can manage these days, and Vera's virtually senile so dirt just gets moved around. It's better than nothing, I suppose, but he could do with some energy about the place."

They picked their way along a vestigial gravel path between the beds with Nancy admiring the eight-foot-high wall that surrounded the garden. "It must have been splendid when they had staff to manage this properly," she said. "It looks as though they grew espalier fruit trees all along that south wall. You can still see the wires." She pointed to a raised plateau of earth in the middle. "Is that an asparagus bed?"

He followed her gaze. "God knows. I'm a complete ignoramus when it comes to gardening. How does asparagus grow? What does it look like when it's not in a packet in a supermarket?"

She smiled. "Just the same. The tips push up out of the ground from a massive root system. If you keep banking up the earth, the way the French do, then the tips stay white and tender. That's how my mother does it. She has a bed at the farm that produces pounds of the stuff."

"Is she the gardener in the family?" he asked, steering her toward a wrought-iron gate in the western wall.

Nancy nodded. "It's her profession. She has a huge nursery complex down at Coomb Croft. It's amazingly profitable."

Mark remembered seeing the signs when he passed on his way to Lower Croft. "Did she train for it?"

"Oh, yes. She went to Sowerbury House as an under-gardener when she was seventeen. She stayed for ten years, rose up the ranks to head gardener, then married my father and moved to Coomb Croft. They lived there till my grandfather died, which gave her time to develop the nursery. She started as a one-man band, but now she has a staff of thirty… it virtually runs itself."

"A talented lady," he said with genuine warmth, opening the gate and standing back to let Nancy through. He found himself hoping she would never meet her real mother. The comparison would be too cruel.

They entered another enclosed garden, with L-shaped flanks of the house forming two sides of the square and a hedge of thickly growing evergreen shrubs running from the kitchen wall to the quoin on the left. Nancy noticed that all the windows overlooking this space were shuttered on the inside, giving them a blind white stare from the painted wood behind the glass. "Isn't this wing used anymore?" she asked.

Mark followed her gaze. If he had his bearings right, then one of the second-floor rooms was Elizabeth's-where Nancy had been born-and beneath it was the estate office where her adoption papers had been signed. "Not for years," he told her. "Ailsa closed the shutters to protect the furnishings."

"It's sad when houses outgrow their occupants," was all she said, before returning her attention to the garden. In the center was a fishpond, heavily iced over, with reeds and the dead stalks of water plants poking above the surface. A bench seat, green with mold, nestled among clumps of azaleas and dwarf rhododendrons beside it, and a crazy-paving path, much degraded by weeds, wound through dwarf acers, delicate bamboos, and ornamental grasses toward another gate on the far side. "The Japanese garden?" Nancy guessed, pausing beside the pond.

Mark smiled as he nodded. "Ailsa loved creating rooms," he said, "and they all had names."

"It must be stunning in the spring when the azaleas are in bloom. Imagine sitting here with their scent filling the air. Are there any fish?"

Mark shook his head. "There certainly were when Ailsa was alive, but James forgot to feed them after she died and he says he couldn't see any the last time he came here."

"They wouldn't die from lack of feeding," she said. "It's big enough to provide insect life for dozens of fish." She squatted down to peer through the sheet of ice. "They were probably hiding in the water plants. He ought to ask his gardener to thin them out when the weather improves. It's like a jungle down there."

"James has given up on the garden," said Mark. "It was Ailsa's preserve, and he seems to have lost interest in it completely since she died. The only part he ever visits now is the terrace, and then only at nighttime." He gave an unhappy shrug. "It worries me, to be honest. He parks his chair just to the right of where he found her and sits there for hours."

Nancy didn't bother to pretend ignorance of what he was talking about. "Even in this weather?" she asked, glancing up at him.

"He's certainly been doing it for the last two nights."

She pushed herself upright again and walked beside him along the path. "Have you talked to him about it?"

Another shake of his head. "I'm not supposed to know he's doing it. He vanishes off to bed at ten o'clock every night, then creeps out again after I've switched off my bedroom light. He didn't come in till nearly four o'clock this morning."

"What does he do?"

"Nothing. Just huddles into his chair and stares into the darkness. I can see him from my window. I nearly went out on Christmas Eve to give him a rocket for being stupid. The sky was so clear that I thought he'd die of hypothermia-even wondered if that was the intention-it's probably what killed Ailsa-but he kept relighting his pipe so I knew he wasn't unconscious. He didn't mention it yesterday morning… or this… and when I asked him how he'd slept, he said, fine." He turned the handle on the next gate and shouldered it open. "I suppose it may have been a Christmas vigil for Ailsa," he finished without conviction.

They emerged onto an expanse of parkland with the bulk of the house lying to their right. Frost still lay in pockets under the shrubs and trees that formed an avenue facing south, but the bright winter sun had warmed it to a glistening dew on the sweep of grass that sloped away and gave an unrestricted view of Shenstead Valley and the sea beyond.

"Wow!" said Nancy simply.

"It's stunning, isn't it? That bay you can see is Barrowlees. It's only accessible via the dirt track that leads to the farms… which is why this village is so expensive. All the houses have a right of way attached to them which allows them to drive their cars down to the beach. It's a complete disaster."

"Why?"

"They're priced outside local people's reach. It's turned Shenstead into a ghost village. The only reason Bob and Vera are still here is because their cottage is tied to the Manor and Ailsa promised it to them for life. I wish she hadn't, as a matter of fact. It's the only cottage that still belongs to James, but he insists on honoring Ailsa's word even though he desperately needs help. He had another cottage up until four years ago, but sold it off because he had trouble with squatters. I'd have advised short-term lets rather than sale-precisely for this eventuality-but I wasn't his lawyer at the time."

"Why doesn't he have someone living in the house with him? It's big enough."

"Good question," said Mark dryly. "Maybe you can persuade him. All I get is-" he adopted a quavery baritone-" 'I'm not having some damn busybody poking her nose in where it isn't wanted.' "

Nancy laughed. "You can't blame him. Would you want it?"

"No, but then I'm not neglecting myself the way he is."

She nodded matter-of-factly. "We had the same problem with one of my grandmothers. In the end my father had to register his power of attorney. Have you set up a document for James?"

"Yes."

"In whose name?"

"Mine," he said reluctantly.

"My father didn't want to exercise it either," she said sympathetically. "In the end it was forced on him when Granny was threatened with having her electricity cut off. She thought the red bills were prettier than the others, and lined them up along her mantelpiece to brighten her room. It never occurred to her to pay them." She smiled in response to his smile. "It didn't make her any less lovable," she said. "So, who else lives in Shenstead?"

"Hardly anyone permanently. That's the trouble. The Bartletts in Shenstead House-retired early and made a fortune selling up in London; the Woodgates at Paddock View-they pay a peppercorn rent to the company that owns most of the holiday cottages in return for managing them; and the Weldons at Shenstead Farm." He pointed at a woodland that bordered the parkland to the west. "They own the land that way so, strictly, they're outside the village boundary. As are the Squires and the Drews to the south."

"Are they the tenant farmers you told me about?"

He nodded. "James owns everything from here to the shoreline."

"Wow!" she said again. "That's some acreage. So how come the village has a right-of-way across his land?"

"James's great-grandfather-the fellow whose ulster you saw-granted rights to fishermen to transport boats and catches to and from the coast in order to build a lobster industry in Shenstead. Ironically, he was faced with the same problem that exists today-a dying village and a dwindling workforce. It was the time of the industrial revolution and youngsters were leaving to find better-paid work in the towns. He hoped to tap in to the successful Weymouth and Lyme Regis operations."

"Did it work?"

Mark nodded. "For about fifty years. The entire village was geared to lobster production. There were carriers, boilers, preparers, packers. They used to freight ice by the ton and store it in icehouses round the village."

"Do the icehouses still exist?"

"Not as far as I know. They became redundant as soon as the fridge was invented and electricity was brought in." He nodded toward the Japanese garden. "The one that was here became that pond we've just been looking at. James has a collection of copper boiling pans in one of the outhouses, but that's about all that's survived."

"What killed it off?"

"The First World War. Fathers and sons went off to fight and didn't come back. It was the same story everywhere, of course, but the effects were devastating in a small place like this which relied on its menfolk to heave the boats in and out of the water." He led her out to the middle of the lawn. "You can just about see the shoreline. It's not a good anchorage so they had to haul the boats onto dry land. There are photographs of it in one of the bedrooms."

She shielded her eyes against the sun. "If it was that labor-intensive then it was always doomed," she said. "Prices would never have kept up with the cost of production and the industry would have died anyway. Dad always says the greatest destroyer of countryside communities was mechanization in farming. One man on a combine harvester can do the work of fifty, and he does it quicker, better, and with far less waste." She nodded toward the fields in front of them. "Presumably these two farms contract out their plowing and harvesting?"

He was impressed. "How can you tell just by looking at them?"

"I can't," she said with a laugh, "but you didn't mention any laborers living in the village. Does the farmer to the west contract out as well?"

"Dick Weldon. No, he's the contractor. He built up a business on the other side of Dorchester, then bought Shenstead Farm for peanuts three years ago when the previous owner went bankrupt. He's no fool. He's left his son in charge of the core business to the west and now he's expanding here."

Nancy eyed him curiously. "You don't like him," she said.

"What makes you think that?"

"Tone of voice."

She was more perceptive than he was, he thought. Despite her smiles and her laughs, he still hadn't learned to read her face or inflection. Her manner wasn't as dry as James's but she was certainly as self-contained. Anywhere else, and with a different woman, he would have flattered to seduce-either to be fascinated or disappointed-but he was reluctant to do anything to queer James's pitch. "Why the change of heart?" he asked abruptly.

She turned to look at the house. "You mean, why am I here?"

"Yes."

She shrugged. "Did he tell you he wrote to me?"

"Not till yesterday."

"Have you read the letters?"

"Yes."

"Then you ought to be able to answer your question yourself… but I'll give you a clue." She flicked him an amused glance. "I'm not here for his money."