Chapter Three

‘I FEEL TERRIBLE leaving you,’ said Peter. ‘But, if you’re sure. You won’t hesitate to phone?’

Unable to break it to him that the phone had been cut off, Hetty, glad now to be able to cross her fingers, obliged. ‘Even if it’s three o’clock in the morning.’

He chuckled. ‘Well, if it’s that time it had better be burglars, or at the very least a rat. But you’ll be all right for firewood for a few days anyway. And you’ve got the dogs for company.’

‘Yes.’ Right now, Hetty craved solitude. With her luck the dogs would turn out to have the gift of speech. ‘I really will be fine.’

‘If I didn’t have so much work on, I wouldn’t go.’

‘There’s really no need for you to be worried about me. I’m a big girl now.’

He would have continued to argue, only she pushed him firmly towards the back door, saving her sigh of relief for when he finally drove away.

He left her with some ancient rugs, which in theory the dogs slept on, their leads, a bag of dog food and a couple of dog bowls. He also gave her a lot of instructions about how to light a fire and persuade it to stay alight all night.

Alone at last, Hetty went back to the sitting room to reread the letter from the loan company, cursing herself for not thinking of asking Peter for a lift into town so she could go to the bank. He’d been so eager to help.

If only she’d actually read the bus timetable instead of just noting how few of them there were. If only she had a car. If only she hadn’t let herself be talked into coming to a house that needed not so much a sitter as a financial wizard – something she’d have found difficult at the best of times.

But, she told herself firmly, a broken heart wasn’t a good enough excuse for wimping out – not like a broken leg would have been. And if she had to face an unknown bank manager in an unknown town and explain her distant relation’s complicated financial arrangements, she might as well get on and arrange to do it. It would be a baptism of fire. It would be good for her. She decided to take Islay and Talisker – moral support as far as the bus timetable.

‘Well, you two,’ she said bracingly to them. ‘How about a little walk?’ Recognizing the word, the dogs leapt off the sofa and sprung about like wind-up toys until she produced their leads. Then they sat stock still, ears pricked, eyes intelligently expectant while she slipped them over their heads. ‘You do that part very well, I must say,’ she said, praising them extravagantly as per Peter’s instructions. ‘I just hope you’re as good at walking to heel. I don’t want everyone to see how little I know about dogs. I bet Mrs Hempstead is an expert on them, as well as on minor stately homes.’

Out of loyalty, or maybe just good manners, the dogs trotted quietly enough along the road, if not at her heels then at least not pulling a couple of paces in front. She found their presence surprisingly supportive. No one would stare at her wondering why she was alone if she had dogs to walk.

The bus timetable was depressingly clear. There were no buses until the end of the week, and Hetty didn’t feel she could wait that long. Not wanting to go home without having furthered her end in some way, she tied the dogs to a conveniently placed rail and went into the shop. She bought a packet of biscuits and boldly asked Angela Brewster the best way of getting into town without a car when there were no buses. ‘I thought there might be a local taxi firm or something?’

Angela nodded. ‘There is. But why don’t you ask Phyllis Hempstead? She’d love to help, and I know she goes to town on Tuesdays. It’s market day. She gets her organic veg there.’ Angela’s expression became speculative. ‘I must go and see the woman who runs it. If we had really good organic veg . . . Oh, sorry. Yes, why don’t you ask Phyllis for a lift?’

Hetty demurred. She’d far rather spend a fortune on a taxi than ask favours from someone she’d only met briefly.

Angela brushed aside her objections. ‘Nonsense. Mrs Hempstead would never forgive me if I let you get a taxi when I know she’ll be going to town.’ Angela made a face. ‘Apart from anything else, it’s so un-green.’

Feeling like a child packed off to the village miser to ask for alms, Hetty changed the biscuits for a packet of chocolate-and-hazelnut ones, which Angela promised were Mrs Hempstead’s favourite.

‘She seems a bit of a dragon, but she’s got a heart of gold when you get to know her,’ Angela told Hetty, handing her a hastily drawn map.

Not much reassured, Hetty left, clutching the map and the biscuits like lucky charms.

Mrs Hempstead lived in a stone cottage, with a stone-tiled roof. A perfect period piece, surrounded by what would be a perfect cottage garden, come spring. Hetty felt slightly sick as she walked up the path. Supposing Mrs Hempstead hated dogs? Supposing they jumped on her sofa, as they had on Samuel’s? Why had she brought them? Why had she come at all? She knocked on the door and stood well back on the garden path, giving herself a head start should she need to make a run for it.

Mrs Hempstead looked at her blankly for a few seconds after she opened the door. ‘The girl from Courtbridge House?’

Hetty nodded.

‘Hello! I see you’ve got the dogs.’

‘Yes. They seem very good.’ She hung on tightly to their leads. ‘But I don’t know which is which.’

‘The dog is Talisker, and the bitch Islay,’ said Mrs Hempstead, unable not to sound patronizing, although she tried.

‘I had worked that out. It’s knowing which one is which. They both –’

Mrs Hempstead snorted, interrupting Hetty. ‘Oh, simple, the dog’ll cock its leg and the bitch’ll squat.’

At that moment one of the dogs obligingly lifted its leg against a lavender bush, and the other immediately followed suit, exactly copying its sibling. No wonder they say dogs are loyal, thought Hetty, seeing them repeat what they had done at intervals all the way from the house.

‘Ah,’ said Mrs Hempstead, not approving of this display of gender-bending. ‘I suppose they’ve been together all their lives and Islay’s picked that up from Talisker.’

‘So there’s no other way of telling?’

Mrs Hempstead regarded her sternly. ‘Look underneath.’

‘Oh,’ said Hetty quickly, before Mrs Hempstead could tell her what to look for. ‘I didn’t think of that.’ In fact, she had, but it seemed a rather intimate way to behave with creatures she’d only just met.

‘Well, come along in then. Don’t stand out there. And let the dogs go. They’ll be all right. They know the house well.’

Hetty released her companions somewhat reluctantly. At that moment a black Labrador appeared and, after giving Islay and Talisker a cursory sniff, took hold of Hetty’s sleeve and led her into the house. It was a kindly, welcoming gesture, which Hetty much appreciated.

‘I brought you some biscuits,’ she said, offering them.

Mrs Hempstead eyed them warily, as if aware she was being softened up. ‘No need to do that, dear. But thank you anyway. Come into the kitchen where it’s warm.’

Hetty’s dogs instantly settled themselves in front of Mrs Hempstead’s battered Aga and Hetty seated herself at the kitchen table, drawn there by the dog. It was only then that the dog released her.

‘Now,’ said Mrs Hempstead, ‘what’s the problem?’

‘I need to go into town tomorrow. I asked Mrs Brewster at the shop about taxis, but she said you always – she insisted –’

‘You mean, she said I’d give you a lift? Of course I will. I always go into town on Tuesdays. It’s market day. I get my organic veg from there.’

‘That’s what Mrs Brewster said.’

‘Sensible woman, Angela Brewster. Turned the shop around. Dead on its feet, it was, after the school closed. If you have to take your child to school by car it’s as easy to carry on to town to the supermarket for your groceries. But it doesn’t take account of the people who haven’t got cars.’ Mrs Hempstead drew breath. ‘Sorry. Hobby-horse of mine, rural decline. That’s why the house, Courtbridge House, is so important.’

Mrs Hempstead opened a cupboard. From it she produced a wine bottle with the sort of sinister white label, scrawled with the word Damson, that indicated the contents were Home Made. ‘Little something to keep out the cold? Glad of a chance to have a good talk.’ She filled two sherry glasses with viscous purple liquid. ‘Here’s to a good visitor season.’ Hetty sipped dubiously. It was surprisingly pleasant, strong and sweet, and only faintly reminiscent of cough mixture. ‘That house could be a little gold mine,’ said Mrs Hempstead. ‘If we can only keep it out of the hands of that nephew.’

Wondering how on earth they could do that when he was Samuel’s legal heir, Hetty said, ‘Tell me about him. Peter said something about him wanting to turn the house into a theme park.’

Mrs Hempstead nodded. ‘There was a planning application in the paper. We all wrote and protested, and the plan was refused. But it told us how he was thinking.’

‘But if the plan was refused –’

‘Only the first shot across our bows, I’m afraid. He’ll apply again, for sure. His type always do.’ Hetty badly wanted to ask her hostess if she’d met him but, even aided by damson wine, she lacked the nerve. ‘So, why do you want to go to town? Our village shop is excellent, you know. And you should always shop locally if you can.’

Hetty did know – so many people had told her. ‘I need to go to the bank.’

‘Ah. Have to go to town for that.’

Having arranged to be collected at eight-thirty sharp the following morning, Hetty weaved her way home, and drank a couple of glasses of water to counter the effects of damson wine on an empty stomach. She then made a sandwich and, with it, a decision: she would thoroughly explore the house and make up her own mind about whose side she was on, that of Peter and Mrs Hempstead, and, according to them, most of the village; or the wicked nephew, a.k.a. Conan the Barbarian.

She decided to do the outside first, and made her way through the maze of still rooms, game larders and pantries, all long unused and full of junk, to the yard at the back of the house.

A huge horse chestnut spread its branches to brush against the roofs and guttering of the buildings that surrounded it. An ancient coach-house butted against a magnificent arch, high enough for a coach and horses to drive through. A few wisps of old man’s beard sprouted from the top like forgotten Christmas decorations.

She wandered across to a row of farm buildings and found them, like the spare rooms in the house, full of junk. But the stables were almost empty, and seemed completely unaltered from the days when the house would have kept several pairs of horses for driving and riding, and more draught horses for working the land. There were even wisps of hay in the mangers.

It was sad to see them so empty when once they must have been constantly busy, noisy with the sound of hooves on cobbles. There was even a name still visible above one of the doors. She traced it with her finger. FESTE. Nostalgia swept over her, a longing for a past she could never have known. She was just about to slump into tearfulness when one of the dogs butted her in the back of the leg with its nose. She started, remembering that she was supposed to be clinically assessing whether she thought the house should be preserved, or become a theme park; a plastic, sanitized version of itself. Feeling unable to make an unbiased decision, she went back into the house, where the decay was less attractive.

The kitchen was now quite warm, but it was far from cosy. Now that the daylight was beginning to go, the single bulb that dangled from the ceiling threw shadows into every corner. Her feelings of romantic melancholy threatened to become mundane depression. She slid the kettle on to the hot part of the stove before continuing her tour. The kitchen did not further the cause of the conservationists.

The great hall was a dim, echoing shadow of the room she remembered from her childhood. Cobwebs draped the tops of dusty tapestries and the wall sconces created more shadows than they shed light. The tall windows were overgrown with ivy, and if it hadn’t been for the dogs frisking and sniffing, unconcerned by their surroundings, Hetty would have sworn the room was haunted. Perhaps it was, haunted by the laughter and music that had filled it all those years ago. But not, apparently, since.

She didn’t explore the other ground-floor rooms. They were gloomy, full of furniture, and needed sunshine. Sunshine being unavailable, she hurried back to the sitting room where the fire crackled enthusiastically, and lit the candles that stood in the tarnished silver candlesticks. The room seemed cosy now, the china in the shelved alcoves reflecting the dancing light of flames.

The house was impossible, she decided. It was in bad order, too large for a home, too small for anything else. It would cost thousands to put in order. Even new curtains (the present ones had torn the moment she tried to draw them) would be impossibly expensive. Why Samuel had bothered to repair the roof when it was quite obvious the place was about to come to the end of its natural life, she couldn’t imagine. But nor could she think of the place as a theme park.

It was no good – logic had failed, romance had won. She wanted to preserve the house at all costs. It was foolish, quixotic, ridiculous perhaps, but she felt she had to protect this gracious, dilapidated old house against the ravages of common sense, practicality and progress. Then, remembering the letter on thick, embossed cream paper, she recalled how great the costs were likely to be, and went back into the kitchen to make herself some tea.

In the kitchen there was a sort of background roaring from the stove, which quite likely meant it was beavering away heating hot water for her. She could have a nice hot bath. But the thought of taking all her clothes off in a strange, spooky, probably spidery, bathroom was too unnerving. She could do that tomorrow when, no doubt, she’d feel better.

What Hetty was really dreading was sleeping in the house on her own. She’d never liked sleeping alone in any house, mostly because she’d hardly ever done it. And Courtbridge House was a very different prospect from a bungalow overlooking a golf course.

Her mother had no notion of her daughter’s fears. It wasn’t something Hetty had liked to mention, it sounded so pathetic. And she’d been pathetic enough since Alistair. Cursing herself silently for being neurotic, she took her cup of tea into the sitting room.

The fire was going well and, in spite of dark, unexplored areas, the table lamps made the room more welcoming than the kitchen, and it felt safer. It could have been a lovely room, given a good spring-clean and some judicious decorating. It had, according to the guide book, which Hetty had picked up from the hall table, been decorated in the early eighteenth century with panelling, wainscots, dado rails and cornices. Two arched niches either side of the fireplace had beautifully carved tops, like shells. Within them, on curved shelves, was a collection of china which might have been very fine indeed if dusted. The ceiling was decorated with elaborate plasterwork.

Hetty noticed that although this room was described, sparingly, in the guide book, it was not, according to the same book, open to the public. Probably, she thought somewhat critically, because Samuel hadn’t wanted to go to the trouble of tidying it.

Hetty noticed that the panels were painted in shades of pale grey – either that or the paint was extremely dirty. If it was dirt and not paint, would it be necessary to redecorate in order to open the room to the public? Or would a good scrub do? And if not, could she use ordinary emulsion, or would she have to track down some specially aristocratic paint, deemed fit by those who knew about important country houses? She’d have to ask Mrs Hempstead.

Hetty winced. She had once decorated her bedroom at home without moving even her homework. Mrs Hempstead, without doubt, would be a wash-down-with-sugar-soap, sand-down-with-fine-glass-paper, it’s-all-in-the-preparation sort of decorator. Fortunately, Hetty hadn’t come there to redecorate, merely be there. Someone else could argue the virtues of paint-stripper versus hot-air blowers, and the best way of ‘antiquing’ new paint.

She felt tired at the thought, probably because she was tired. But she couldn’t go to bed until she had decided where. Should she sleep where she slept last night? Or where her mother had slept, a slightly grander bedroom, with a four-poster bed and a marble wash-stand? Samuel’s bedroom had merely been peeped into and then rejected. It had smelt of strange ointments and old books. It was the sort of room that should be faced with a can of air freshener and a good friend, in bright sunlight.

She was comparing rocks and hard places, when the dogs came up and shoved her with their noses. Horrified, she realized she’d forgotten to feed them and Clovis, the ancient cat. She leapt up and went back to the kitchen.

That’s what happens, she told herself firmly, measuring the amount of dog food specified into two bowls, when you become wrapped up in your own problems. You forget to feed the animals.

While the dogs pushed their bowls noisily round the flagged floor, Hetty shook the woodlice out of a saucepan and made herself some scrambled eggs. It really was time she stopped being so feeble.

She settled down to eat her supper in the sitting room, and had shared her toast crusts with the dogs before she remembered that she wasn’t supposed to. ‘Oh well,’ she said, feeling more relaxed after a few sips of Old Sack, ‘I don’t suppose you’ll tell anyone.’

Seeing the dogs so cosily ensconced in front of the fire she thought of the vast, echoey upstairs that she had to penetrate before deciding which bedroom was the least terrifying. Then it came to her. She would fetch her bedding, bring it down, and join the dogs in front of the fire.

The following morning, Hetty awoke early, disturbed by the shufflings and scratchings of her cohabitees, and anxious about what the day would bring. The sofa was not sufficiently comfortable to linger on anyway, so it was no hardship to get up, although it was barely six o’clock.

She let the dogs out into the yard, filled the kettle, and tried to feel as if she really belonged to the house, and was not, in spite of her bed on the sofa, merely camping in it. But it was hard to feel optimistic about Courtbridge just at the moment.

Mrs Hempstead arrived soon after eight. Hetty met her in the yard while she was watching the dogs catching up on the early morning smells, cocking their legs and snuffling up the dew.

‘Good morning. Sorry I’m a bit early. Being a lark myself, I sometimes forget that others aren’t so fortunate.’

Mrs Hempstead talked long and hard throughout the journey, not giving Hetty a chance to think about what she was going to say, or even an opportunity to reassure Mrs Hempstead that on matters such as rural decay and community spirit they were on the same side.

In fact, if Mrs Hempstead hadn’t drawn up outside a beautiful stone building, announcing that it was Samuel’s bank, just when she did, Hetty might have switched her allegiance.

‘I’ll drop you here. Can’t stop, double yellow lines.’

Grabbing her bag in the nick of time, Hetty found herself on the pavement, propelled towards the doors of the bank by the force of Mrs Hempstead’s personality. Once inside its gracious portals, Hetty approached the inquiries desk, was directed to a seat, and had plenty of time both to plan her speech and to speculate as to whether the man she was waiting to see would be willing to discuss Samuel’s private financial affairs with a girl in grubby jeans.

Not very, was her answer. In fact it took Hetty a good ten minutes to prove to the junior under-manager that she knew enough about Uncle Samuel’s affairs for him to get out his file in her presence.

‘So,’ he said at last, after a lot of tapping into his computer terminal and sending for papers, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘I think my uncle might have got himself into financial difficulties.’

‘Have I explained that I’m not able to discuss a client’s private affairs with anyone, even a relative?’

He had, ad nauseam. ‘But if I asked you questions, you could perhaps give me yes and no answers, in a hypothetical way?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Would it, hypothetically, be possible to reschedule a loan? If, for example, someone has borrowed money from a finance house’ (she had a feeling that the junior under-manager wouldn’t like the term ‘loan shark’) ‘at rather a poor rate of interest. Could you, should they ask, give them a better deal?’

‘It would depend on how healthy the account was. It would be unlikely if, hypothetically, the account already had a substantial overdraft, for example.’

Shocked out of her hypotheticals by the implications of this, Hetty became more specific. ‘But the lawyer told me there was quite a lot of money in my uncle’s account. I’ve got the amount written down. And anyway, I did you specimen signatures. I can write cheques for him for up to two thousand pounds after the weekend, when you’ve done the paperwork.’

The junior under-manager tapped in his terminal again. Then he shook his head. ‘I’ve no record of any such arrangement.’

Hetty felt sweat trickle down her front and thought, irrelevantly, that she should have remembered to take off several sweaters before entering a centrally heated building. ‘But I’ve got a chequebook. Look.’

He took the offered book. ‘Wrong bank, Miss Longden.’

Hetty bit her lip, pleased at least that the colour which now flooded her face would hardly show given that she was already scarlet with heat. ‘Oh, hell,’ she murmured. ‘I think perhaps I ought to go –’

‘Not so fast,’ said the junior under-manager, who watched a lot of films. ‘Am I to understand that there is money available in this other account?’

‘Now look,’ said Hetty, ‘you wouldn’t discuss my uncle’s business with me. I don’t think I should discuss it with you.’

‘Your uncle owes us a lot of money. If he has funds he has a duty to lower his overdraft.’

‘Nonsense! You make loads of money out of his overdraft.’

‘Only if he pays the interest.’

‘Well, I’m only his house-sitter anyway.’

‘But you can write cheques?’

‘Only for household things. And not exceeding two thousand pounds a cheque.’

‘Two thousand pounds is a lot of housekeeping. Or should that be house-sitting?’

‘So?’

‘Listen, Miss Longden, we have been very tolerant with your uncle, because of his age and infirmities. But should we discover that he hasn’t been entirely honest with us we might become less tolerant.’

‘That sounds like a threat.’ Hetty had seen her fair share of movies too.

‘It’s not meant to.’ He sighed. ‘But I’m sure you understand. Banks aren’t charitable institutions. We need our customers to pay money in as well as take it out.’

He looked tired, and Hetty suddenly felt sorry for him. ‘Mmm,’ she said, as sympathetically as she could.

‘And the house insurance is due. If you could write me a cheque immediately, I would appreciate it.’

Hetty sighed. ‘Lend me a pen. How much is it for?’ He told her. ‘I’ll have to write two cheques.’ With extreme reluctance she handed them over. ‘Don’t cash them until after the weekend.’

‘Do you know that if the house is open to the public you have to have a Certificate of Public Liability?’

‘Oh.’ Hetty’s voice was very husky.

‘The insurance wouldn’t be valid without it.’ She got out a bit of dirty tissue. The heat had made her nose run. But the junior under-manager mistook her motive. ‘That house could be a gold mine if it was properly promoted,’ he said. ‘I went there last summer with my partner. It’s got real potential. All it needs is someone with a bit of energy.’

Hetty, who’d spent the night on the sofa, got wearily to her feet. ‘Thank you,’ she said, pushing away her chair. She had got as far as the door when he stopped her.

‘About the Certificate of Public Liability. The insurance people will come round and check to see if the building’s safe. It might be quite expensive to make the house fit for the paying public.’ He looked sad, a little abashed. ‘I’ll try and warn you when he’s coming.’

‘Thank you.’ Hetty got through the door with her self-possession barely intact.