Cherringham--The Secret of Combe Castle (7 page)

Anjii waited for Sarah to take the chair and then sat opposite her, legs crossed, notepad out.

Sarah put her handbag to one side and took a slow, careful breath. She had a plan — but she had no idea if she could pull it off.

Anjii smiled. Sarah smiled back. Anjii looked immaculate herself — certainly someone who had more than one business suit in her wardrobe.

The woman oozed class and confidence.

Well so do I,
thought Sarah, continuing to stare.

At least today!

“So, Sarah … you said you wanted to talk about a property we are involved in?”

“Combe Castle,” said Sarah.

She watched Anjii make a note, then look up. “Really? And precisely what is your interest?”

“My interest is — precisely — that I am acting on behalf of the owner. Or rather, one of the owners — Edwina FitzHenry.”

Not exactly a lie
, thought Sarah.

She’d called Edwina that morning and told her she was going to ‘pop into Cauldwells and find out who the mystery buyer was.’

“I see,” said Anjii. “I wasn’t aware of that …”

Sarah smiled sweetly at her, as if to imply she would forgive Anjii for this inexcusable lack of knowledge.

This estate agent was a shark who would expect to know every fish in the waters.

“So how may I help you?” said the agent.

“Edwina FitzHenry tells me that you have a purchaser for the house and estate?”

“There has been … interest. If the property was truly available.”

“May I enquire as to that individual’s identity?”

“As I said to Mrs. FitzHenry, my client prefers to remain anonymous.”

Sarah reached for her handbag, took out her iPad and made a brief note. She was aware that Anjii was getting just a little impatient …

Good
, she thought.

“Is your client intending to make an offer for the property?”

“When certain criteria have been met. Starting with … the current owners being ready to discuss any terms.”

“Such as?”

“My client has requested an accurate survey of the buildings in question,” said Anjii. “The only extant plans available are at least a hundred years old and are clearly unreliable.”

“I see,” said Sarah. “Isn’t it rather early in the whole process to be commissioning a survey? There hasn’t even been an offer yet.”

“Look, Ms. Axelhoff, my client intends to invest a considerable sum in the castle. Much of that investment will be in a massive renovation and new build.”

“And when do you intend to make the survey?”

The agent looked surprised.

“Well, it’s already been conducted. As Mrs. FitzHenry’s representative I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

Sarah hid her reaction.

“Edwina told me you’d made some measurements on your recent visit to the property,” said Sarah. “She expressed some … doubts … that you had the qualifications to conduct a proper survey.”

Sarah smiled.
Take that.

“Hardly rocket science. You’re probably not aware, but the latest laser devices allow even … well, even estate agents … to capture all the data that is required.”

Sarah nodded politely.

“I assume you have been able to use this data to build a 3D model of the property?”

“Actually we have.”

“May I see it?”

“May I ask why?”

“Anjii — I’ll be honest with you — and between us — Mrs. FitzHenry is actually considering asking you to manage the sale of the house and estate. She feels that Cauldwells would be the perfect … partner.”

The woman’s eyes went wide with that news.

“We’re flattered, I’m sure.”

“But … her only concern was that Cauldwells might not be able to match the latest technology that some of the London agencies now use.”

Too quickly now.

“That simply isn’t the case.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“The software we use is absolutely cutting edge.”

“Good. In which case, I’m sure you won’t mind if I ask to see the 3D model myself?”

Anjii seemed surprised.

“I doubt it will mean much to you … all 3D schematics, hard to orient yourself.”

At least she was no longer saying I can’t see it,
Sarah thought.

“I’d like to try anyway.”

“As you wish,” said Anjii, getting up from the sofa.

Result,
thought Sarah.
Now, fingers crossed …

Sarah followed her over to her desk and as the agent opened the clamshell of her laptop, she stood casually to one side, holding her iPad.

“Oh — Mrs. FitzHenry also asked if she could have a copy of the plan,” said Sarah.

“Ah. A copy? I don’t really think that’s possible. The potential buyer hasn’t seen it yet — it’s only just come in.”

“It would be so reassuring to the owner. Of course, you are aware that if Cauldwells were sole agent, I imagine the commission on a sale would be considerable.”

“Nevertheless …”

Sarah watched Anjii wrestling with the problem.

“Mrs FitzHenry would be most grateful.”“Very well. What the owner requests …” said Anjii, “the owner shall have.”

“I brought a mini drive.”

Sarah took a breath, her ruse working. In truth, she wasn’t at all interested in the 3D model. What she wanted — what she’d come to the office for — was Anjii’s network password.

The conversation about the survey had been just a ploy to force Anjii to open her laptop. Sarah was guessing that Anjii would have password protection set for each time the laptop was woken up.

And now she could see she’d been right.

“How are you enjoying Cherringham?” said Sarah, just as Anjii’s fingers began to touch the keys.

The words had the desired effect — to slow Anjii down, to make her pause.

“It’s very … quaint,” said Anjii, delivering the word as if it was obscene.

Sarah tracked the woman’s fingers on the keyboard … and got five out of the six characters for sure.

“But so welcoming too, don’t you think?” said Sarah brightly.

She opened Notes on her iPad and popped the password in so she wouldn’t forget it. Then she turned her attention back to the laptop.

Anjii opened the 3D software and showed her the model of Combe Castle. As a designer Sarah knew enough about the tech to ask questions which had Anjii grappling to find answers.

Which was very satisfying.

Sarah handed her the USB drive, Anjii copied the model across, and gave her the drive back.

“Thank you. It will be good to show this to the owners. Very reassuring.”

“I doubt they’ll understand the model.”

“Still — it shows that Cauldwells is state of the art, hmm? And I will be back with thoughts about next steps very soon.”

Then, gathering up her handbag from the sofa she said goodbye to Anjii — who seemed surprised that the meeting had rushed to its conclusion — and left the office.

As she turned the corner into the village square she passed Cecil Cauldwell on his way back to the office.

Early …

She’d been lucky.

Was she going to be lucky with the password too?

Jack pulled up in front of Pelham Grange next to a mud-splattered Toyota pickup loaded with hay bales, and turned the Sprite’s engine off.

The drive had taken him longer than expected.

Pelham Farm was marked on the map as being to the south of the FitzHenry estate but when Jack got there he discovered that the farm was just that: barns, stores, vehicles, livestock, milking rooms — but no actual farmhouse.

One of the farmhands had explained: the Pelham estate was split in two. One half — the working half — to the south of the FitzHenry’s, the other to the north.

And the farmhouse, where Arthur Pelham lived, was in the northern section.

So back on the road Jack had gone, stopping in a small roadside pub up on the ridge for lunch of shepherd’s pie and a glass of Coke.

Remembering how ten years ago when he’d toured here with Katherine, they’d not thought twice about having a pie and a pint of beer …

And then he’d driven another ten minutes until he’d spotted the sign to Pelham Grange and driven down the long drive which had brought him here.

He looked up at the farmhouse — big, modern, functional.

He rang the bell and waited.

The door opened and a man stood there, chewing away, a sandwich in one hand.

Arthur Pelham …

He was tall — six foot three maybe, thought Jack — and though he looked to be in his sixties, Jack felt sure he was all muscle under the jeans and Barbour jacket.

“Mr. Pelham?” said Jack.

The man shut the door behind him.

“That’s right,” he said. “And you are?”

“Jack Brennan. I was hoping to talk to you about your neighbors, the FitzHenrys …”

The man squinted.

“What are you — police?”

“No, just trying to help them out with a little … vandalism … that’s occurred on their property.”

Pelham shook his head. “Well, you’ve come to the wrong place, Brennan. I’m not in the business of helping the FitzHenrys. Ever!”

Pelham walked past Jack and headed for the pickup.

“Sorry to hear that. Could be helpful if you had time to talk, Mr. Pelham.”

Jack watched the man pause at the vehicle.

“D’ya have ears? Why should I help those buffoons?”

“Don’t know. Though …”

Jack looked away, about to play a card he had played so many times before in the line of duty …

“– it certainly would be a good way to remove any suspicion that you might be involved.”

The man’s hand had been on the truck’s door. He looked as though he might yank the door right off it.

A man not used to being played with.

Jack watched Pelham consider his words. A nod, a shake of his head, then Pelham opened the passenger door of the Toyota pickup.

“All right. Hop in. You talk, I’ll drive.”

“I can follow you,” said Jack, nodding towards his Sprite.

Pelham laughed. “Not in that you can’t! I’m going to work, man.”

So Jack locked the Sprite and climbed into the battered old pickup.

Pelham crunched the gears and they roared off up the drive.

*

Jack held tight to the clutch bar on the pickup’s dash as they rocked and jolted over the rough ground.

No way could they have a conversation, bouncing around like this.

Pelham had turned off the tarmac drive and now headed south across the meadows, by-passing herds of cattle, and avoiding ditches at the last minute.

Guy wants to give me a lesson in farming,
thought Jack.
Well, if it makes him happy …

Eventually they crossed a muddy, pitted meadow and stopped at a small pen holding half a dozen cattle, next to a long fence which Jack could see disappearing for miles in either direction.

Pelham turned off the engine.

“Come on, then.”

He climbed out and headed round to the back of the truck. Jack opened his door and followed him. A harsh wind was blowing and Jack wished he’d brought his heavy jacket.

He watched the farmer drop the tailgate, pick up a bale and hoist it on his shoulder.

“You want to talk?” he said. “Then work.” The man grinned. “Deal?”

Jack laughed, nodded and hoisted a bale onto his own back. He liked this rough-edge, no-nonsense farmer.

He followed Pelham to the pen where the cattle were already waiting for their feed, and tipped the bale over the side.

“Getting them ready for market, huh?” said Jack on the second trip.

“Yup. Really good price right now,” said Pelham. “Just right for Christmas.”

When they’d done the bales, Jack nodded to two sacks in the back.

“Barley too?”

“Both sacks,” said Pelham. “Done this before then?”

“Brooklyn born and bred,” said Jack grabbing a sack. “City kid. But spent summers on my granddad’s farm upstate.”

He saw Pelham nod and, bent under the heavy sacks, they both went to the pen.

Jack tipped the barley into the feed tray, then watched Pelham check the water. Then they stepped out of the pen, leaving the cattle to eat.

Jack could see the sun beginning to set over the hill, a dull glow catching the underneath of gun-metal clouds.

Getting cold enough for snow,
he thought.

“Thanks for the help,
New Yawker …
so, you wanted to talk about the FitzHenrys?” said Pelham. “Well, I’ll tell you about the FitzHenrys.”

Jack pulled his jacket tighter in the wind.

“See the fence?”

Jack nodded.

“All the land this side is Pelham land. And everything you see on the other side is FitzHenry land. The fence is theirs to maintain. But they never do, you see? So I pay for it and I maintain it.”

“From what I hear they’re short of cash.”

“Damn right there!” said Pelham. “Now you see how my land goes down to the river?”

Jack looked to his left: the fence ran all the way down to the Thames, just visible in the valley. He nodded.“Well — so does the FitzHenry land. But here’s the rub. On the other side of
their
land is the other half of
my
land. Five thousand acres.”

“Ah,” said Jack, realising. “Your land’s split — and let me guess … you have no right of way through?”

“Exactly. Every bloody time I want to get to those five thousand acres, I have to go up the hill two miles to the main road — then drive another three miles before I hit my land again.”

“And that’s deliberate, huh?”

“Oh yes. Seven hundred years ago the feeble King of England stole that land from my family and gave it to the FitzHenrys.”

“Why?”

“To reward them for some craven act of loyalty — and to punish us Pelhams for daring to stand up for our rights.”

“But over the years, surely you could have bought some kind of right of way?”

“Ha — from the FitzHenrys? Some hope! Not only penniless, they’re filled with stupid pride! For seven hundred years we’ve begged on bended knee for a road, a track — a footpath even to link the farms. But they’re selfish bastards the FitzHenrys, ‘our historic land’ they’d say … and they’ve turned us down every time. For centuries!”