The Last Baronet Page 10

  ‘Goodness me,’ said Henry admiringly. ‘You will be busy.’

  ‘The one thing I shall regret when we move into the flat will be having to leave the garden. I do so enjoy gardening and it will be a wrench. It will be my sacrifice. But it has to be said, Henry, that you have never pulled your weight in matters horticultural. The garden has always been down to me. It has always been my responsibility. You have never shown the slightest interest in my herbaceous borders. It has been purgatory getting you to mow the lawns, and as for clipping the hedge...’

  ‘I’m not much of a gardener,’ Henry admitted amiably.

  ‘You have never shared my love of being out in the fresh air,’ said Penelope. ‘You’ve always spent your time fiddling about indoors with your dusty old books, wrapping up parcels, your nose never out of the Bookseller, talking to your weird collector friends on the telephone. I’m afraid that will have to stop, Henry, once you have retired. We won’t be able to use the telephone carte blanche, not on a pension. We shall have to cut back. Economies will have to be made.’

  ‘I was thinking I might take an evening class myself,’ Henry said thoughtfully. ‘Always supposing there is something of interest in the prospectus; provided there is something on offer relevant to my needs; some useful skill I could acquire.’ One Hundred Ways to Dispose of a Corpse, for example, thought Henry Lamb. Imaginative Ways to Murder Your Wife.

  ‘Evening classes? You?’ Penelope looked at him in astonishment. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Henry, you’ve never had an interest in your life other than in your mouldy old books.’

  ‘Of course I haven’t.’ Henry favoured his wife with a gentle smile. ‘What an old silly I am.’ Of course, Henry could afford to be gentle because Penelope was not party to his plans. Penelope had no idea that she would not have to worry about the monstrous bookcase or about lunches and teas, or even breakfasts and suppers for that matter. Penelope did not know that she would no longer be troubled by cardboard boxes and sale catalogues and dusty old books, and that she would be in no position to mind leaving the garden but might easily end up beneath it. Penelope just didn’t have a clue.

  ‘If we are thinking of moving into the flat in the spring,’ continued Penelope in a determined voice, ‘and the agents seem to think that Ensleigh Gardens will be completed by then, we shall have to start getting things organised. We shall have to start thinning things out very soon. I’m talking about the furniture now, Henry. I’m talking about the bookcase. I really don’t think it will fit into your bedroom. It’s only a single room. It’s very small.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the bookcase, my sweet,’ said Henry soothingly. ‘All you have to do is make a list of the items you want to dispose of and I shall see to it. I promise you won’t have to give it another thought. I shall contact the auction house and have everything collected. You can leave it all to me. Only say the word and I shall arrange it.’ Only say the word, thought Henry, and I shall dispose of Penelope. Only say the word and I shall arrange Penelope under the floorboards wrapped in vinegar and brown paper. Penelope neatly packed into seventeen cardboard boxes. Dusty old Penelope. Mouldy old Penelope. Henry Lamb smiled winningly at his wife. ‘And whilst I am about it, I shall ask them to include my collection, the bookcase, my book stock and the sale catalogues. How does that sound? What do you think of that?’ Henry enjoyed playing games. Henry beamed. ‘I’m thinking of you, my sweetheart, I’m thinking of what you would like. I’m thinking that you really don’t want your nice new flat cluttered up with my disreputable things, do you? You don’t want my ugly old bookcase and my dirty books and my untidy cartons and my dusty sale catalogues, you really don’t. They would make the place look untidy, wouldn’t they? Of course they would. I understand Penelope, I really do. So if that is what you want, my dearest, my absolute treasure, that is what you shall have. I shall see to it personally. Trust me.’

  Penelope stared. Henry,’ she began in a faltering voice, ‘I didn’t mean... I only wanted you to...’

  ‘No thinking allowed,’ said Henry firmly. ‘And as retirement looms, and as all these changes are shortly to take place, I have a surprise for you. I have decided that we shall go away for Christmas. We shall spend a few blissful days in a comfortable country house hotel. What do you think of that? No...’ Henry held up a pink and cherubic hand. ‘No objections please! This is my treat and I am going to arrange it. It will be our last little extravagance.’

  Penelope was so taken by surprise that she sat down rather suddenly on the settee with her thick and rather shapeless legs stuck out in front of her like a jointless doll. For once, she was quite lost for words. Of course, she was not to know that what Henry termed “our last little extravagance” could turn out to be true in more ways than one might suppose. How could she possibly know? Only Henry knew that. Only Henry Lamb with the angelic face and the dark and murderous thoughts knew that, and Henry wasn’t telling. Oh no, Henry wasn’t saying a word.

  *

  Len Sparkes had been dozing in his conservatory and when he opened his eyes his son’s fancy car was on the drive. ‘What now, Sadie,’ he said to his old black Labrador. ‘To what momentous event do we owe this unexpected visit, I wonder?’ Wearily, he hauled himself to his feet and made his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sadie began to scratch at the front door in a way that, twelve months ago, would definitely not have been allowed.

  Len had converted this cottage for his wife, Rupert’s mother, who had not lived long enough to appreciate it. Now Len lived alone with the fruits of his labours. He had been self-employed all his working life, surrounded by clients, craftsmen and casual labourers. Loneliness was something he was still coming to terms with. He saw Rupert less often than he would have liked, but would not have admitted it. He may have thought it but he would not have said it out loud. Not to Rupert. He didn’t want sympathy. He didn’t want visits made out of obligation. He didn’t want the few visits he had to be increased and compromised by guilt, by duty. ‘What brings you to this neck of the woods then, son? Not your usual day of the week for visiting, unless I’ve read the calendar wrong.’

  Rupert rubbed Sadie behind her ears and looked ruefully at the line of slobber decorating his trouser leg. ‘She’s getting too fat. It’s not good for her. You should go for more walks.’

  ‘I’m not much of a walker.’

  This was true. Len was more of a worker than a walker. ‘All the same, it’s not good for her. She really is overweight.’

  ‘Come to lecture me about Sadie, have you?’

  ‘Not really. Good thing you’ve got the kettle on. I’ve come to ask a favour.’

  ‘Funny you should say that.’ Len reached for a tray and the sugar bowl. Not that his son would have any sugar. Sometimes Len felt he was the last person on earth who liked two spoonfuls in his tea. ‘Get the milk out the fridge then. And get the biscuit tin out whilst you’re about it. We’ll have our tea in the conservatory.’

  ‘Nice this, isn’t it? Good bit of workmanship.’ Rupert put the tea tray on the coffee table and fended off Sadie, who was eying the ginger biscuits. ‘You’ve painted it again since I was last here.’

  ‘Wasn’t sure about the colour at first. It’s growing on me now.’

  ‘I like it. Farrow and Ball, I bet.’

  Len sank back into his armchair and grinned. ‘Farrow and Ballish. I had it mixed to match.’

  Rupert poured the tea. His dad knew his trade. Whatever it was, tiles, timbers, hand-made bricks, fancy ironwork, conservatories or paint, he always knew how to get the right effect for half the cost. That’s why he, Rupert, was here. Unexpected. Unscheduled.

  They sat for a few minutes looking out onto the neat lawn and the flower beds that had been planted by Rupert’s mother and were now meticulously tended by Len as her legacy. Sadie flopped down on the tiles between them, her eyes still on the biscuits.

  ‘So what’s what, then?’ Len took a sip of his tea from a mug with a pansy on it. ‘What’s to do? Got th
e sack, have you? Getting married?’

  ‘No to both of those. I came to ask you something. I want to know if you are enjoying retirement. I wondered how you are managing here, all on your own, except for good old Sadie, of course.’

  Len thought about it. He didn’t want to mention loneliness. Or depression. Or the aches and pains that were the result of giving up an active life to sit in an armchair drinking tea, reading detective novels, watching TV and doing Sudoku puzzles. ‘It’s too late to change my mind now. I’ve got rid of the business. I’ve sold up, and that’s the end of it.’

  ‘It might not be. I’ve got a suggestion to make. I might have a job for you, if you are interested.’

  Len put his mug back on the tray. Was his son about to suggest he become a pot boy at the hotel? A kitchen porter, scouring dirty plates in the wash-up? Wheeling out the rubbish? ‘A job for me? What sort of job? How come?’

  ‘Anna, the girl I’ve told you about, the girl I work with, she wants to convert this old ruin of a house into a hotel. I’ve said I’ll help. I’ve said I’d ask you if you would be the project manager; you know, a sort of clerk of works, organising the job. I wondered if you would be interested.’

  Good God. This was a turn up for the book. Unexpected wasn’t the word for it. Nevertheless: ‘Interested is one thing. I may be interested but I’m too old now; too decrepit. Anyhow, I made my decision, I retired.’

  ‘Then un-retire. You still have the expertise. You still have your contacts. And you’re far from decrepit – you haven’t been retired all that long, you would soon get back into it. And you have to be bored, sitting here on your backside all day. Look at you,’ Rupert gestured at the puzzle books, the stack of novels, the conservatory painted again before it needed it, just for something to do. ‘You could at least just come and have a look. See how you feel about the job. See if you fancy it.’

  ‘What about your own job? I thought you were doing OK where you are, assistant manager and all that. I thought you were settled.’

  ‘I am. I was. But I’ve made the decision now. If it works out, it could be good.’

  Len knew his son well enough to recognise doubt when he heard it. If, not when. ‘You don’t sound so sure. Has she got the money?’

  ‘Not enough. Not nearly enough. It’s a big project.’

  ‘So you don’t know if it’s going to work, and you don’t think she’s got enough money, so you could be on a loser and you’re giving up a good job. Why would you do it?’

  Rupert took a sip of tea from a mug with a foxglove on it. He supposed he had better come clean. ‘To tell the truth I’m a bit keen on her, Dad. Not just a bit, I suppose. If I’m honest I have to say I’m really keen. I don’t want her to go off somewhere else without me. I don’t want her to find herself another manager. I don’t want to lose her.’

  ‘And this girl, Anna, is she keen on you?’

  ‘Not yet.’ As well as not yet, Rupert could have added maybe not ever. He would not mention that their tentative relationship had failed, nor would he mention the unexplained absences; his suspicion that Anna may have a relationship elsewhere, nor the incredibly agonising, gut-wrenching pain of hopeless, unrequited, longing. ‘Well, you know me, Dad,’ he said lightly. ‘Your unpredictable offspring. Contrary as ever.’

  ‘You’re not kidding. It’s bloody typical this is.’

  ‘What is?’ As if he didn’t already know. As if he couldn’t anticipate what was coming.

  ‘Of all the girls you’ve had, of all the girls you could have had, you have to pick on one who doesn’t care a fig for you.’

  ‘I didn’t say she didn’t care a fig.’ There had, of course, been many girls in Rupert’s past. Far too many girls in Len’s opinion. Not all had been treated kindly. Was Anna his come-uppance? ‘She’s a friend, and that’s a start.’

  ‘Not much of one, in my book. Not enough to leave a good job for. Still, I’ll come and have a look. Only a look. No promises, mind.’

  As Rupert’s car drew out of the drive Len collected up the mugs and put them on the tray. He carried the tray into the kitchen. Was it his imagination, or did he suddenly feel better? Less weary, more invigorated? ‘Well, it looks as if we’ve a bit of excitement in prospect now, Sadie. Property restoration, eh? Project management, eh? We weren’t expecting that to land on our doorstep today, were we? Mind you, building works is one thing and love is quite another. Love can be the very devil. We’ll have to watch our step there, Sadie girl, because you can guarantee that when love comes into it things can get complicated. Things can get messy. Oh yes, only one thing’s certain and that is when love comes in the door, common sense flies straight out the window.’

  Sadie, who knew nothing of love but a lot about devotion, loyalty and the desirability of ginger biscuits, thumped her tail on the kitchen tiles. Len patted her soft head affectionately and took the lid off the biscuit tin.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Ah, the Angel Gabriel.’ Vivian had tottered down the brick passage wearing an ancient dressing gown and dusty monogrammed slippers. ‘Some woman to see you. Got a card out of the post office apparently.’ He flopped onto a chair, wheezing.

  ‘You should be in bed,’ Anna said severely. ‘Doctors orders. You can’t get up until next week.’

  ‘Bloody doctor. What does he know? Can’t do this. Can’t do that. I want to see what’s going on. My house you know. My land.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ Anna took him by the arm. ‘And as soon as the doctor gives you the green light you will be in the thick of it. They have started to strip the tiles off this wing already. It’s too cold for you to be wandering about in just your pyjamas. I’ll take you back to bed. Would you like a hot drink?’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind a whisky.’

  ‘You know you are not allowed whisky. It’s bad for your heart.’ Anna looked at his downcast face and her own heart melted. This was, after all, her own drowned man; the old man she had rescued from the mere; the man who had gripped the sides of the wheel barrow and quoted the old testament: Cast me not off in the time of my old age; forsake me not when my strength faileth. ‘I tell you what, if you go back to bed, I’ll bring you some brandy and warm milk.’

  Vivian got up from the chair with what might almost have passed for alacrity in a geriatric patient. ‘I’ll tell her you’ll be five minutes then. Fine figure of a woman, I must say.’ He added hopefully, ‘Nurse, is she?’

  ‘In your dreams,’ said Anna.

  ‘You can forget about the warm milk.’ Vivian tottered off down the brick passage. ‘Just bring the brandy.’

  *

  ‘Mrs Sholto, if you will forgive me for saying so,’ said Anna a little warily, when they were safely seated at the plank table and Sir Vivian was back in bed sipping brandy with honey and hot water. ‘You don’t actually look like a gardener. To be perfectly frank, you are not at all what I was expecting.’

  Mrs Sholto, whose high-heeled sandals had barely survived the brick floor of the passage, wore a full-skirted floral print dress topped with a cardigan of breath-taking whiteness and three rows of fake pearls. Her extravagantly large spectacles had flamingo pink frames and the generous curls of her hennaed hair were held in check by two diamanté combs. She was about forty years of age with a trim figure and quite striking in her way, but it was true that she was nobody’s idea of a gardener.

  ‘I expect I’ve overdone it a bit, as usual,’ she said apologetically. ‘I did so want to look nice for the interview and I expect I’ve gone right over the top. I try too hard, Miss Gabriel, that’s my trouble. I put in a lot of effort. My Arnold always said “Mavis, you never do anything by halves; with you, it’s all or nothing,” and he was right, he really was. I particularly wanted to make a good impression today because the stars are with me, Miss Gabriel, Mars being in Aries. I’m a great believer in the stars; we’re all governed by the planets whether we like it or not, and when I saw your card in the Post Office it hit me like a bolt from the blue, it really did.
Mavis, I said to myself, this is it. This is you. You’ve done all you can with your own little plot and this is fate giving you a chance to spread your wings. I put a lot of trust in fate, Miss Gabriel, although fate is determined by the stars, it quite definitely is. I’m a student of astrology, you’ve probably guessed it, and when I saw your little card I just knew it was heaven sent.’ Mavis Sholto leaned over the plank table in a confiding manner. Her scent was overpowering and her lipstick applied with a lavish ferocity. ‘I must confess to having a little potter round the garden on my way in and from what I’ve seen you certainly need a gardener to sort you out, Miss Gabriel, you really do.’

  ‘We do,’ agreed Anna, who had decided that plain speaking was the best way out of an awkward situation, ‘but to be honest, Mrs Sholto, I was expecting a man. This garden needs restoration. Nothing has been done here for years and there is a lot of heavy work involved. I am not talking about a bit of light digging and planting, I am talking about cleaning out ditches, scything banks, repairing walls and rebuilding glasshouses. I am talking about earthworks, about mowing acres of grass with heavy machinery, about clipping yew hedges twenty feet high. I am talking about hard, physical labour. I am not talking about woman’s work.’

  ‘Oh, I realise that, Miss Gabriel,’ Mavis Sholto said confidently, ‘that’s why I’ll be bringing Barry.’

  ‘Barry?’ enquired Anna faintly.

  ‘Barry from the village, Miss Gabriel. He’s mute, I’m afraid, and not quite all there in the head due to being partially asphyxiated at birth, but put him in front of a mower or a pile of bricks and he’s as happy as a lark. Oh yes, Barry will deal with all your scything and your earthworks and glasshouses, there’s no problem about that and he’s yours for four pounds an hour as long as it’s cash in hand and no questions asked. He’s ideally suited to the rough, Miss Gabriel, and the rougher the better; you’d be doing him a favour, you really would. He does love to mow and he’s rather run out of work down in the village; well, you’ve only to look at the churchyard and the cricket pitch and the verges mown nearly into Earl Soham to appreciate Barry’s work, and if you want a reference for my own gardening skills, number twenty-five The Glebe is all down to me and it’s the show garden of the village, even though I do say it myself.’ Here, Mavis Sholto paused for breath, but before Anna could utter a word, gripped her by the sleeve and looked at her imploringly. ‘The thing is, Miss Gabriel, that since my poor Arnold departed, I’ve taken to gardening in a big way; I see it as my salvation; I’m very keen. I subscribe to Gardener’s Weekly and I’ve been to Wisley and Kew. I never miss a gardening programme on the television. I know a lot about gardening, Miss Gabriel, I really do. My hanging baskets and my petunias stop people in their tracks, you can take my word for it.’