Brendwright was close to seventy, unmarried, his only relation was a niece who lived in London. He was entitled to call himself Colonel but refused because the Army had offended him. For three centuries his family had owned this comparatively poor estate situated at Thaleham, a village some forty miles from the edge of London. A crank and a dreamer, he pictured himself as the ideal landlord, loving the land for its own sake.
A landlord he certainly was, but on a time lease. At the death of his father he had been unable to meet the duties. He was compelled to sell the land — but contrived to cling to it. He sold it below its low value — on the condition that he should remain tenant for life. The purchaser was a London businessman, then resident in the neighborhood — Harry Finchmoor’s father.
When Finchmoor senior died, Harry inherited the family business in London and the title deeds to all the land at Thaleham except the manor house which Brendwright had retained. Harry would step into complete ownership on Brendwright’s death. While Brendwright was alive, neither could sell a square foot of the land without the others consent.
When the big chance came, Brendwright refused his consent.
Harry Finchmoor did not know that the big chance had come until the niece, Lorna Brendwright, rang him at his office.
“Lorna Brendwright here. Harry, can I talk to you about Uncle John?”
“Lorna!” He was embarrassed. “First, tell me how are you.”
“That’s civil of you, Harry, but it’s about Uncle John. May I come to your office?”
“Lunch would be nicer. What about the Besc Chinar?”
In their teens at Thaleham he had adored her — until she repulsed him and in no gentle manner. There had been no resentment, only a hangfire shock to his self-esteem. He had no craving to see her again. For ten years he preserved the memory of her as she was when she was living with her mother at Rose Cottage — it could not escape that name, there really were roses round the door.
Was she as good-looking as he had thought her? He was still uncertain when they met in the restaurant. He noted that she was dressed with a disciplined femininity that suggested a good office background.
“You still look like a tennis star,” she greeted him. “Why have you avoided me?”
“I was once fool enough to fancy my chances, Lorna.”
Lorna tended to take that kind of remark at its face value.
“You mean that day when we were on a wander? You were showing me an outworked gravel pit when you suddenly grabbed me. I was frightened.”
“Not half as frightened as I was. I’m glad you told me. Now I shall enjoy my lunch.” He added, “Is your uncle ill?”
“I don’t know. He says the doctor told him he can’t live another two years. It’s not the way doctors generally talk.” She spoke with indifference, and then: “Harry! Graun Limited intend to set up a factory at Thaleham. They will want housing for two thousand families. Semi-detached houses with gardens. A square mile of them.”
The Big Chance. Ushered in by Lorna, as if she intended to take charge. He held back the obvious questions until he had ordered lunch.
“Yesterday,” resumed Lorna, “was my birthday. Uncle John always comes up to London and takes me out to dinner. We talk about his land, ignoring the fact that it’s really your land.” Her voice had a pleasing tone but she spoke as if to a younger brother. “He then gives me five pounds which he cannot afford and which I do not need. As we part, he takes me by both hands — very awkward because my bag always gets in the way — and reminds me that all that he has will one day be mine — which means the manor house, mortgaged to the hilt, which is all he owns.”
He could barely listen. “Why didn’t they approach me first?”
“Please!” Lorna did not like to be interrupted. “Last night the land talk was wilder. I was offered the story of King George III staying at the manor house to learn about farming from Uncle’s ancestor. In time he told me that a man from the County Council had informed him that the Council intended to welcome the factory and to facilitate the building program. If necessary, the Council would itself step in under the Compulsory Purchase Act.”
“Compulsory Purchase!” Harry repeated. That was a blow and she was playing it up. Her old game of trying to lead him. But he was older now and could take care of himself. “That means his tenancy and my land would be bought at agricultural valuation. And the Council would build the houses for Graun’s.”
“That will happen,” she said, “unless you can give guarantees — within one month — that the houses will be built by private enterprise. The Council will send you a sort of ultimatum in a few days.”
His spirits rose. Lorna, he supposed, knew nothing of the mechanism of high finance. “I can get a financial company to come in and fix the whole thing.”
“But, Harry, you can’t do anything at all to that land without Uncle’s consent. And he won’t give it. He loves not giving it. He says he’ll be dead before the houses can be built and while he’s alive he intends to be loyal to his land. And I shall get the manor house and the mortgage. You see, I’m not wholly disinterested.”
“Leave it to me, Lorna.” To soften it he added, “Your uncle doesn’t understand that I shall buy back the tenancy from him — at a substantial profit to himself.”
She gave him the look that had intimidated him in his teens.
“Rose Cottage!” she exclaimed. “It needed repair when we were there. It’s much worse now. Well, he has scraped together fifty pounds to start restoring—”
“Surely, we need not bother about Rose Cottage—”
“Harry! Do you remember the elaborate set-up he ordered for Mother’s funeral? His ‘kinswoman,’ of course. Yesterday he said that as soon as the cottage was restored he wanted Mother and me to five in it again.”
“Momentary absent-mindedness.”
“No. It’s dissociation — it’s been creeping on him for at least a year. He cannot wholly distinguish between his dream of himself and the real life going on around him. I don’t think he fully realizes that he has signed away his ownership of that land.”
“Then I’ll show him his own signature. The title deeds, correspondence, and whatnot are at the Safe Deposit. I’ll get ’em out after lunch. I’ll go down by rail — so’s I can sort out the papers in the train.”
“I hope he will listen to you,” she said, but without conviction. Her doubt of his ability stung him to boastfulness.
“He must. I’ll drench him in money talk — offer him a juicy cut. He can’t be so mad as to throw it away for the love of talking tosh about his ancestors. It’ll be all right, Lorna.”
In the train he was less cocksure of his ability to knock sense into the old man. But the nearest he came to planning murder was to weigh up what the doctor was alleged to have said. If Brendwright could not live for two years, for how much less would he live? Twenty-three months less than two years? Nothing else would be any good.
He opened the deedbox he had brought from the Safe Deposit, separated the Thaleham papers from other interests, and put his selections on top. A bundle of stodge, but he would do his best.
His thoughts returned to Lorna. It was tactful of her to say she had been frightened that day when he had grabbed her in the outworked gravel pit and fumbled a kiss. But in fact she had not been frightened. She had been amused. In ten years he had not forgotten her amusement. But now, of course—
At Thaleham the stationmaster-parter greeted him as an old acquaintance and immediately spoke of the proposed factory.
“I hear say that Mr. Brendwright is against it — though he needs the money as much as anybody. It’ll be a shame if Thaleham gets left out again.”