Fox Evil

12

Nancy backed up toward the gate, narrowing her eyes against the sun to stare at the Manor's facade, while Mark dragged his heels several yards behind. Aware that Eleanor Bartlett could return at any moment, he wanted to keep Nancy away from the road, but she was more interested in a vigorous wisteria that was dislodging slates from the roof. "Is the building listed?" she asked him.

Mark nodded. "Grade Two. It's eighteenth century."

"What's the local council like? Does it monitor for structural damage?"

"I've no idea. Why do you ask?"

She pointed to the bargeboards beneath the eaves, which were showing signs of wet rot in the shredding wood. There had been similar damage at the back of the house, where the beautiful stone walls were streaked with lichen from water leaking out of the gutters on that side. "There's a lot of repair work needs doing," she said. "The gutters are coming away because the wood underneath is rotten. It's the same at the back. All the bargeboards need replacing."

He moved up beside her and glanced along the road. "How do you know so much about houses?"

"I'm a Royal Engineer."

"I thought you built bridges and mended tanks."

She smiled. "Obviously our PR isn't as good as it ought to be. We're jacks-of-all-trades. Who do you think builds accommodation for displaced people in war zones? Certainly not the Cavalry."

"That's James."

"I know. I looked him up in the army list. You really ought to persuade him to have the repairs done," she said seriously. "Damp wood's a breeding ground for the dry-rot fungus when the temperature heats up… and that's a nightmare to get rid of. Do you know if the timber's been treated inside?"

He shook his head, drawing on his knowledge of property conveyancing. "I wouldn't think so. It's a mortgage requirement, so it's usually done when a house changes hands… but this one's been in the family since before wood preservative was invented."

She cupped both hands over her forehead. "He could end up with a huge bill if he lets it go. The roof looks as if it's sinking in places… there's a hell of a dip under the middle chimney."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know without looking at the rafters. It depends how long it's been like that. You need to check with some old photographs of the house. It may just be that they used green wood in that part of the construction and it bowed under the weight of the slates. If not-" she lowered her hands-"the timber in the attic may be as rotten as the bargeboards. You can usually smell it. It's pretty unpleasant."

Mark remembered the odor of decay when he arrived on Christmas Eve. "That's all he needs," he remarked grimly, "the bloody roof to cave in as well. Have you ever read Poe's 'The Fall of the House of Usher'? Do you know what the symbolism is?"

"No… and no."

"Corruption. A corrupt family infects the fabric of their house and brings the masonry down on their heads. Remind you of anything?"

"Colorful but entirely improbable," she said with a smile.

A flustered voice spoke behind them. "Is that you, Mr. Ankerton?"

Mark swore under his breath as Nancy gave a start of surprise and swung around to find Eleanor Bartlett, looking every bit her age, on the other side of the gate. Nancy's immediate reaction was sympathy-the woman looked frightened-but Mark was cool to the point of rudeness. "This is a private conversation, Mrs. Bartlett." He put his hand on Nancy's arm to draw her away.

"But it's important," Eleanor said urgently. "Has Dick told you about these people at the Copse?"

"I suggest you ask him," he told her curtly. "I don't make a habit of passing on what people may or may not have said to me." He put his mouth to Nancy's ear. "Walk away," he begged. "Now!"

She gave a brief nod and wandered down the drive, and he thanked God for a woman who didn't ask questions. He turned back to Eleanor. "I've nothing to say to you, Mrs. Bartlett. Good day."

But she wasn't about to be rebuffed so easily. "They know your name," she said rather hysterically. "They know everybody's names… what sort of cars they drive… everything. I think they've been spying on us."

Mark frowned. "Who're 'they'?"

"I don't know. I only saw two of them. They're wearing scarves over their mouths." She reached out a hand to pluck at his sleeve, but he stepped back sharply as if she were leprous. "They know you're James's solicitor."

"Courtesy of you, presumably," he said with an expression of distaste. "You've whipped up half the countryside to believe I'm representing a murderer. There's no law against revealing my name, Mrs. Bartlett, but there are laws of libel and slander and you've broken all of them in relation to my client. I hope you can afford to defend yourself…and pay damages when Colonel Lockyer-Fox wins-" he jerked his head in the direction of Shenstead House-"otherwise your property will be forfeit."

There was no agility of thought in Eleanor's mind. The pressing issue of the moment was the travelers in the Copse, and that was the question she addressed. "I didn't tell them," she protested. "How could I? I've never seen them before in my life. They said the land's terra nullius… I think that was the expression… something to do with Lockean theory… and they're claiming it by adverse possession. Is that legal?"

"Are you asking for my professional opinion?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" she said impatiently, anxiety bringing sparks of color back into her cheeks. "Of course I am. It's James who's going to be affected by them. They're talking about building structures on the Copse." She waved a hand up the road. "Go and look for yourself if you don't believe me."

"My fees are three hundred pounds per hour, Mrs. Bartlett. I am prepared to negotiate a flat rate for advice on legislation re adverse possession, but in view of the complexity of the issue, I would almost certainly have to consult counsel. His charges would be in addition to the agreed amount, and that could take the final figure well over five thousand. Do you still want to engage me?"

Eleanor, whose sense of humor excluded irony, interpreted this answer as deliberately obstructive. Whose side was he on, she wondered, as she looked down the drive after Nancy's black-clad figure? Was this another of them? Was James conspiring with these people? "Are you responsible for this?" she demanded angrily. "Is that how they know so much about the village? Was it you who told them the land was unowned? They said you were in situ and knew something about this wretched terra nullius nonsense."

Mark experienced a similar revulsion to Wolfie's. Ailsa always said Eleanor was older than she looked, and, close up, Mark could see she was right. Her roots needed seeing to and there were pinch marks around her mouth from bad-tempered pouting when she didn't get her own way. She wasn't even handsome, he thought in surprise, just tight-skinned and waspish. He put his hands on the gate and leaned forward, dislike narrowing his eyes.

"Would you care to explain the twisted logic that gave rise to those questions?" he said in a voice that grated with contempt, "or is making false accusations a disease with you? This isn't normal behavior, Mrs. Bartlett. Normal people do not force themselves into private conversations and refuse to leave when asked… nor do they make wild allegations without some basis in fact."

She quailed slightly. "Then why are you treating this as a joke?"

"Treating what as a joke? An assertion by a deeply disturbed woman that people in scarves are talking about me? Does that sound sane to you?" He smiled at her expression. "I'm trying to be generous, Mrs. Bartlett. My personal view is that you're mentally ill… and my judgment is based on the recordings I've listened to of your calls to James. It might interest you to know that your friend Prue Weldon has been more intelligent. She never speaks at all, just leaves a record of her phone number. It won't stop her being charged with making malicious telephone calls, but your calls-" he made a ring of his thumb and forefinger-"we're going to have a field day with them. My best advice is that you see a doctor before you consult a solicitor. If your problems are as serious as I think they are, you might be able to plead mitigation when we play your tapes in open court."

"That's ridiculous," she hissed. "Tell me one thing I've said that isn't true."

"Everything you say is untrue," he flashed back, "and I'd like to know where you've been getting it from. Leo wouldn't speak to you. He's more of a snob than James and Ailsa have ever been, and a social climber wouldn't appeal at all-" he ran a scathing eye over her pastel outfit-"particularly the mutton-dressed-as-lamb variety. And if you believe anything Elizabeth says, you're an idiot. She'll tell you anything you want to hear… as long as the gin keeps flowing."

Eleanor gave a vicious little smile. "If it's all lies, why hasn't James reported the calls to the police?"

"Which calls?" he slammed back aggressively.

There was a tiny hesitation. "Mine and Prue's."

Mark made a commendable attempt to look amused. "Because he's a gentleman… and he's embarrassed on behalf of your husbands. You should listen to yourself occasionally." He put the knife in where he thought it would hurt the most. "The kindest interpretation of your rants against men and where they put their penises is that you're a closet lesbian who's never found the courage to declare herself. A more realistic interpretation is that you're a frustrated bully with obsessions about sex with strangers. Either way, it doesn't say much about your relationship with your husband. Isn't he interested anymore, Mrs. Bartlett?"

It was a throwaway line, designed to puncture her conceit, but he was surprised by the strength of her reaction. She stared at him wild-eyed, then turned and fled down the road toward her house. Well, well, he thought with surprised satisfaction. Now that was a hit.

He found Nancy leaning against an oak tree to the right of the terrace with her face turned to the sun and her eyes closed. Beyond her, the long vista of the lawn, peppered with trees and shrubs, dipped toward the farmland and the distant sea. Wrong county, wrong period, but it might have been a painting by Constable: Rural setting with boy in black.

She could have been a boy, thought Mark, taking a good look at her as he approached. Butch as hell! Muscular, strong-jawed, barren of makeup, too tall for comfort. She wasn't his type, he told himself firmly. He liked them delicate, blue-eyed and blond.

Like Elizabeth…?

Like Eleanor Bartlett…? Shit!

Even in relaxation and with her eyes closed, the stamp of James's genes was powerful. There was none of Ailsa's fine-boned, pale beauty, which had passed to Elizabeth, only the dark, sculptured looks that had passed to Leo. It shouldn't have worked. It was unnatural. So much strength in a woman's face ought to have been a turn-off. Instead, Mark was riveted by it.

"How did you get on?" she murmured with her eyes still closed. "Did you give her a bollocking?"

"How did you know it was me?"

"Who else could it be?"

"Your grandfather?"

She opened her eyes. "Your boots don't fit," she told him. "Every tenth step you slide the soles along the grass to get a better grip with your toes."

"God! Is that part of your training?"

She grinned at him. "You shouldn't be so gullible, Mr. Ankerton. The reason I knew it wasn't James is because he's in the drawing room… assuming I've got my bearings right. He inspected me through his binoculars, then opened the French windows. I think he wants us to go in."

"It's Mark," he said, holding out his hand, "and you're right, these boots don't fit. I found them in the scullery, because I don't have any of my own. There's not much call for Wellingtons in London."

"Nancy," she said, solemnly shaking his hand. "I noticed. You've been walking as if you had flippers on since we left the house."

He held her gaze for a moment. "Are you ready?"

Nancy wasn't sure. Her confidence had faltered as soon as she spotted the binoculars, and made out the figure behind them. Would she ever be ready? Her plan had gone awry from the moment Mark Ankerton opened the door. She had hoped for a private one-on-one conversation with the Colonel, which would follow an agenda set by her, but that was before she had seen his distress or realized how isolated he was. Naively she had believed she could keep an emotional distance-at least on a first meeting-but Mark's wavering had provoked her into championing the old man's cause, and this without even meeting him or knowing if the cause was a true one. She had a terrible fear suddenly that she wasn't going to like him.

Perhaps Mark read it in her eyes because he took her hat from his pocket and gave it to her. "Usher only fell because there was no one like you around," he said.

"You're a naive romantic."

"I know. It sucks."

She smiled. "I think he's guessed who I am-probably from the Herefordshire cattle sticker on my windscreen-otherwise he wouldn't have opened the French windows. Unless I look like Elizabeth, of course, and he's mistaken me for her."

"You don't," said Mark, holding his arm behind her back to encourage her forward. "Trust me… in a million years, no one would mistake you for Elizabeth."

Eleanor began in Julian's dressing room, searching through his jacket pockets and turning out his chest of drawers. From there she moved to his study, rifling through his filing cabinet and ransacking his desk. Even before she switched on his computer and scrolled through his email correspondence… the man was too blase even to use a password-the evidence of betrayal was colossal. He hadn't even bothered with the pretense of keeping the affair a secret. There was a mobile phone number on a scrap of paper in one of his jackets, a silk scarf at the bottom of his handkerchief drawer, hotel and restaurant receipts in his desk, and dozens of emails filed under the initials "GS."

Darling J, What about Tuesday? I'm free from 6.00…

Can you make the Newton point-to-point? I'm riding Monkey Business in the 3.30…

Don't forget you promised me a grand toward MB's vets' bills…

Are you coming to the Hunt AGM…?

Do you really mean it about the new horsebox? I LOVE you to distraction…

Meet me on the bridleway at the back of the farm. I'll be there around 10.00 a.m…

I'm sorry about Bouncer's leg. Give him a get-well kiss from his favorite lady…

With murder in her heart, Eleanor went into "sent items," looking for Julian's messages to GS.

Thelma is taking Louise shopping on Friday. Usual place? Usual time…?

T and L are playing golf-Sept 19th…

T is off to London next week-Tues. to Friday. 3 whole days of freedom! Any chance…?

T's an idiot. She'll believe anything…

Do you think T could have found herself a toy boy? Keep finding her on the phone. Hangs up immediately…

T's definitely up to something. Keeps whispering in the kitchen with L…

What are the odds on Dick and me being given the boot together? Do you think a miracle's happened and they've both found toy boys…?

The sudden ringing of the telephone on the desk caused Eleanor to give a guilty start. The raucous sound, a reminder that real life existed beyond the grubby secrets on the screen, set her nerves jangling in the silence of the room. She shrank back into her seat, heart thumping like a steam hammer, anger and fear colliding in her gut to produce nausea. Who was it? Who knew? People would laugh at her. People would crow. People would say she deserved it.

After four seconds the line switched to the answerphone and Prue's vexed voice came through the loudspeaker. "Are you there, Ellie? You promised to call when you'd spoken to the solicitor. I don't understand why it's taking so long… plus Dick's refusing to answer his mobile so I don't know where he is or if he wants lunch." She gave an angry sigh. "It's so damn childish of him. I could have done with some help before Jack and Belinda arrive… and now he'll just sour the evening with one of his moods. Ring soon. I'd like to know what's going on before he comes back otherwise there'll be another row about James's bloody solicitor."

Eleanor waited for the click as Prue hung up, then pressed the delete button to erase the message. She took the scrap of paper with the mobile number on it out of her shirt pocket, stared at it for a moment, then lifted the receiver and dialed. There was no rationale to what she was doing. Perhaps the habit of accusing James-and his timid reactions-had taught her that this was the way to deal with transgressors. Nevertheless, it took two attempts to make a connection, because her fingers were shaking so much that they fumbled on the keys. There was no answer, just a few seconds of silence before the call was diverted to voicemail. She listened to the prompts to leave a message, then, with belated recognition that it might not be GS's phone, she rang off.

What would she have said, anyway? Screamed and yelled and demanded her husband back? Called the woman a slut? The awful pit of divorce opened in front of her. She couldn't be alone again, not at sixty. People would avoid her, just as they had when her first husband had left her for the woman who carried his child. Then she had worn her desperation blatantly, but at least she'd been younger and still employable. Julian had been the last throw of her dice, an office affair that had finally led to marriage. She couldn't go through it a second time. She'd lose the house, lose her status, be forced to start again somewhere else…

Carefully, so that Julian wouldn't know she'd found the emails, she exited Windows and shut down the computer before closing the desk drawers and repositioning the chair. This was better. She was beginning to think straight. As Scarlett O'Hara had said, "tomorrow is another day." Nothing was lost while GS remained secret. Julian hated commitment. The only reason Eleanor had been able to force his hand twenty years ago was because she'd made sure his first wife knew of her existence.

She was damned if she'd let GS do the same to her.

With renewed confidence, she went back upstairs and replaced everything neatly in Julian's dressing room, then sat in front of her mirror and worked on her face. For a woman of such shallow mind, the fact that she didn't like her husband and he didn't like her was irrelevant. The issue, rather like the issue of adverse possession at the Copse, was one of ownership.

What she didn't appreciate-because she didn't own a mobile telephone-was that she'd set a time bomb that was about to go off. A "missed call" was logged on the display unit beside the number of the caller, and Gemma Squires, reining in Monkey Business beside Bouncer as the hunt was abandoned, was about to show Julian that his landline was showing on her handset with the call timed at just ten minutes previously.

The foundations of Prue Weldon's world also began to rock when her daughter-in-law phoned to say that she and Jack wouldn't be staying the night after all. They both had hangovers from their Christmas celebrations, Belinda told her, which meant they wouldn't be drinking that evening and could safely drive home after dinner. "I didn't want you to make the beds unnecessarily," she finished.

"I've already done it," said Prue irritably. "Why couldn't you have phoned earlier?"

"Sorry," said the girl with a yawn. "We only surfaced about half an hour ago. It's one of the few days in the year when we get a decent lie-in."

"Yes, well, it's very inconsiderate of you. I do have other things to do, you know."

"Sorry," Belinda said again, "but we didn't get back from my parents' till after two. We left the car there and slogged across the fields. They're bringing it over in half an hour. Jack's cooking lunch for them."

Prue's irritation grew. Eleanor hadn't called, she didn't know where Dick was, and at the back of her mind were growing worries about slander and nuisance calls. Also, her son's relationship with his in-laws was so much easier than hers with Belinda. "It's disappointing," she said tightly. "We hardly ever see you… and when we do you're always dashing to get away again."

There was an exasperated sigh at the other end. "Oh, come on, Prue, that's very unfair. We see Dick most days. He's always popping over to keep a check on things at this end of the business. I'm sure he keeps you posted."

The sigh fueled Prue's anger. "It's hardly the same," she snapped. "Jack was never like this before he married. He loved coming home, particularly at Christmas. Is it too much to ask-that you'll allow my son to stay one night under his mother's roof?"

There was a short silence. "Is that what you think this is? A competition to see who has more control over Jack?"

Prue wouldn't recognize a trap if it jumped up and bit her on the nose. "Yes," she snapped. "Please put him on. I'd like to talk to him. I presume you've decided for him."

Belinda gave a small laugh. "Jack doesn't want to come at all, Prue, and if you speak to him that is what he'll tell you."

"I don't believe you."

"Then ask him this evening," said her daughter-in-law coolly, "because I've persuaded him that we should come-at least for Dick-on the basis that we won't stay long and we won't stay the night."

The "at least for Dick" was the last straw. "You've turned my son against me. I know how much you resent the time I spend with Jenny. You're jealous because she has children, and you don't… but she is my daughter and they are my only grandchildren."

"Oh, please!" said Belinda with equally scathing emphasis. "We don't all share your petty values. Jenny's kids spend more time here than they do with you… which you'd know if you bothered to come and see us occasionally instead of fobbing us off because you'd rather be at the golf club."

"I wouldn't have to go to the golf club if you made me feel welcome," said Prue spitefully.

She listened to the nasal breathing at the other end as the girl struggled to calm herself. When Belinda spoke again, her voice was brittle. "That's the pot calling the kettle black, wouldn't you say? Since when have you made us feel welcome? We flog over once a month for the same ridiculous ritual. Chicken casserole in dishwater because your time's too precious to cook properly… character assassination of Jack's dad… invective against the man at Shenstead Manor…" She drew a rasping breath. "Jack's even more hacked off with it than I am, bearing in mind he adores his dad and we both have to get up at six every morning to keep the business afloat at this end. Poor old Dick's dead on his feet by nine o'clock because he's doing the same thing… while you sit there stuffing your face and slagging people off… and the rest of us are too damn knackered earning your bloody golfing fees to tell you what a bitch you are."

The assault was so unexpected that Prue was stunned into silence. Her eyes were drawn to the casserole dish on the worktop while she listened to her son's voice in the background telling Belinda that his dad had just come through the kitchen door, and he wasn't looking happy.

"Jack will phone you later," said Belinda curtly before ringing off.