“It isn’t so easy to stop a thing as big as this, Mr. Hawkins.”
“Ah!” Hawkins eyed the deedbox as if it were a doctor’s bag. “I hope you’ve got a cure for his trouble in there, Mr. Harry.”
Very encouraging! The whole countryside wanted the factory. Carrying the deedbox awkwardly by one of the side handles, he stepped out on the five-minute walk through the village, passing Rose Cottage, which now suggested only decay.
As he entered the drive of the manor house he came on Brendwright, pushing a barrow. He had not aged unduly — in fact, he looked good for another ten years, though the barrow was making him puff.
“Ha!” He glared at his visitor. “Don’t tell me. I knew you at once. You’re young Harry Finchmoor.”
“Correct. I hope you are well, Mr. Brendwright.”
“I look well, don’t I!” He drew himself up, posing. “My doctor could tell you a different tale. Never mind that. I expect you’ve heard about this wildcat scheme to turn my land into a filthy slum.”
“My” land! Finchmoor let it pass. His offer to push the barrow to its shed was declined. Brendwright washed his hands at an outside tap, dried them on sacking. He opened the front door with a latchkey of modem type.
The house had the air of having slunk unobserved into the twentieth century, achieving a bedraggled character of its own. It had sixteen rooms but Brendwright had his on the ground floor — assisted, three days a week, by a woman from the next village. In the hall a huge sideboard sustained a telephone and a silver tray on which a single letter awaited posting.
“Miss-is Harbutt!” It was a parade-ground bellow that snarled Finchmoor, but the next words were an ingratiating plea. “Will you please serve tea for two?”
The one-time dining room, now an all-purpose living room, had kept its massive table that could have seated thirty. Beside an eighteenth-century fireplace hung a Victorian bell-rope whose tassel touched an almost-new radio set. A Louis XV escritoire, a set of carved footstools, and a gilt settee cohabited with one armchair and four cane-backed uprights.
They stood in a bow window, looking over the land that had grown com, passed to mixed farming, then to market gardening, and now was no more than pasture. The fading light of an October afternoon dealt kindly with the remains of the farm buildings.
“All sorts and conditions of men have stood where we are standing now, Young Harry. Poets — preachers — generals — admirals — statesmen. Why, even royalty — George III had the intelligence to study fanning. Did I ever tell you?”
“I think not, sir. I’d like to hear the yam if you feel inclined.” Finchmoor was ready to let him blow off steam.
Mrs. Harbutt came in with the tea. She set down the tray, switched on the lights, drew the curtains, then interrupted the story of George III.
“It’s just five now, sir, and I’ll be going if there’s nothing else you want. I’ve made a cottage pie out of what was left of the joint — for your luncheon tomorrow. Remember to light the gas in good time and it’ll be nice and hot And there’s plenty o’ bits an’ pieces to carry you over to Thursday morning.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Harbutt.” Again the ingratiating tone. “Will you please post the letter on the hall table?” To Finchmoor he added, “Rose Cottage. I’ve just written an order to start restoring it.”
Rose Cottage, at worst, was better than George III. After tea Finchmoor managed to reach bedrock. Brendwright took the armchair, and Finchmoor one of the uprights. Between them on the floor was the deedbox. Finchmoor unlocked it and arranged his papers on the inside of the lid.
First was a handwritten letter of several sheets.
“You wrote this to my father, Mr. Brendwright. Your deal with him was based on that letter.”
Brendwright regarded the letter with admiration. “Handwriting firm as a rock. And legible.”
“I’d like you to reread it, please, Mr. Brendwright. It will remind you of your general position in regard to the land. I have brought with me the documents, abstracts, and correspondence.”
“I remember it all as if it were yesterday.” Glowing with good humor he returned the letter. “The general position, as you say. I went into all that with the man from the Council.” He chuckled elaborately. “I was very polite to him, Young Harry. I told him I would give earnest consideration, see my lawyer, and explore every avenue.”
“Splendid.” Finchmoor was puzzled. “There’s nearly a month—”
“Nearly a month? You haven’t heard the rest of it. My lawyer tells me it takes a full year to obtain a compulsory purchase order, even when there’s no opposition. And there’s going to be plenty of opposition. I shall conduct my own case. With one point after another I can keep it hanging about the High Court for two or three years. The factory people can’t wait all that time. They’ll build their precious factory somewhere else.”
So that was what the chuckle had meant. Finchmoor felt himself cornered. By the time he had paced the room and come to rest on the hearthrug he had decided to damp down on diplomacy.
“In a few days, Mr. Brendwright, that man will approach me—”
“Then he’ll be wasting his time. Nothing can be done with my land as long as my tenancy continues. They’ll have to break that up, first.”
“Suppose we break it up ourselves, Mr. Brendwright? You and I as partners. I could get a financial company to build these houses for Graun’s.”
“I don’t follow you, Young Harry.” It was a growl but Finchmoor ignored it.
“Then we’ll start at the other end. As of today you own this house and garden — marginally. Nothing else of the estate — not even Rose Cottage. Forgive me for suggesting that you must have many financial anxieties. Join hands with me and you will enjoy a comfortable retirement.”
“Retirement from what?” demanded Brendwright.
“From the misery of squeezing a bare living out of this land. For your life tenancy you paid my father two thousand pounds in the form of reduced purchase price. I will pay you two thousand the day you surrender the tenancy to me. Further, I will allot to you one-fifth of the shares allotted to me by the financing company. Wait, please!” He broke off as Brendwright rose from his chair. “Tell me your objections when you’ve heard what you’re objecting to. I don’t know what your share will be worth. You can be reasonably certain that it won’t be less than ten thousand pounds and it might well be substantially more. This land has become a little gold mine—”
Finchmoor’s voice sank as he saw that he was getting nowhere. The big chance was slithering into the mud. He was failing. Lorna would again be amused.
“So I am to hand my land over to the hucksters and take my thirty pieces of silver!” There was hatred in the old man’s eyes — he was goading himself into fury. On the off chance that Mrs. Harbutt might still be available to create a diversion, Finchmoor pulled the Victorian bell-rope.
The full length of the bell-rope came away in his hand.
“Clown! Get out of my house — d’you hear, get out! And take your lawyer’s bag o’ tricks with you.”
Brendwright kicked the deedbox, spilling the contents.
Then he turned his back.
Finchmoor looped the bell-rope.
Little gold mine or not, it was the animal violence of kicking the deedbox that had sparked an explosive mixture of emotions in Finchmoor.
The hysteria passed when part of him became certain that Brendwright was dead. Emotionally exhausted, Harry stood erect, stretched himself, and yawned as if waking from sleep.
He dropped into an armchair and lit a cigarette.
I’ve killed a man, ran his thoughts. Lorna was right — hell, Lorna didn’t say I was to kill him. I did it myself and I don’t feel any of the things I ought to feel. I must be a pretty low type, and the most ghastly fool. What’s the next step? Pretend I didn’t do it. How? Who benefits by this man’s death? I do. Where were you at six o’clock yesterday? They wouldn’t need any clues.