"Terra nullius. Land with no owner."
She found his pale stare unnerving-familiar even-and glanced toward the smaller, bulkier figure next to him. "Who are you?"
"Your new neighbors, darlin'," said a woman's voice. "We're gonna be here a while, so you'd better get used to us."
This was a voice and gender that Eleanor felt she could deal with-the chewed diphthongs of an Essex girl. Also the woman was fat. "Oh, I don't think so," she said condescendingly. "I think you'll find Shenstead is well out of your reach."
"It don't look that way at the moment," said the other. "Just two of you's turned up since your old man drove by at eight-thirty. Hardly a fuckin' stampede to get rid of us, is it, bearin' in mind it's Boxing Day and everyone's on holiday? What's wrong with the rest of them? Ain't no one told them we're here… or don't they care?"
"The word will spread quickly, don't you worry."
The woman gave an amused laugh. "I reckon it's you needs to start worrying, darlin'. You've got lousy communications here. So far, it looks like your man alerted Mr. Weldon and he's alerted you… or maybe it was your man alerted you and it's taken you four hours to get dolled up. Either way, they've dropped you in it without telling you what's going on. Mr. Weldon was so fired up we thought he was gonna set a whole posse of solicitors on us… and all we get is a piece of candyfloss. How does that work, then? Are you the most terrifying thing this village has got?"
Eleanor's lips thinned angrily. "You're absurd," she said. "You obviously know very little about Shenstead."
"I wouldn't bet on it," the woman murmured.
Neither would Eleanor. She was disturbed by the accuracy of their information. How did they know it was Julian who drove past at eight-thirty? Had someone told them what car he owned? "Well, you're right about one thing," she said, jamming the fingers of both hands together to tighten her gloves, "a posse of solicitors is exactly what you're going to face. Mr. Weldon's and Colonel Lockyer-Fox's have both been informed and, now that I've seen for myself what sort of people we're dealing with, I shall be instructing ours."
The man attracted her attention by tapping the notice again. "Don't forget to mention that it's an issue of ownership and adverse possession, Mrs. Bartlett," he said. "You'll save yourself a lot of money if you explain that when Mr. Weldon tried to enclose it, no deeds to this piece of land could be found."
"I'm not taking advice from you on how to talk to my solicitor," she snapped.
"Then perhaps you should wait for your husband to come home," he suggested. "He won't want to run up bills on a piece of land he has no claim to. He'll tell you the responsibility lies with Mr. Weldon and Mr. Lockyer-Fox."
Eleanor knew he was right, but the suggestion that she needed her husband's permission to do anything sent her blood pressure soaring. "How very misinformed you are," she said scathingly. "My husband's commitment to this village is one hundred percent… as you will discover in due course. He's not in the habit of backing away from a battle just because his interests aren't threatened."
"You're very sure of him."
"With reason. He upholds people's rights… unlike you who are intent on destroying them."
There was a short silence, which Eleanor interpreted as victory. With a tight little smile of triumph, she turned on her heel and stalked away.
"Maybe you should ask him about his lady friend," the woman called after her, "the one that comes visiting every time your back's turned… blond… blue-eyed… and not a day over thirty… that sure as hell don't look like a hundred percent commitment to us… more like a replacement model for a beat-up old banger in need of a facelift."
Wolfie watched the woman walk away. He could see her face going pale as Fox whispered into Bella's ear and Bella shouted after her. He wondered if she was a social worker. At the very least she was a "do-gooder," he guessed, otherwise she wouldn't have frowned so much when Fox put his hand on the rope to stop her coming in. Wolfie was glad of that, because he hadn't liked the look of her. She was skinny and her nose was pointy, and there were no smiley lines around her eyes.
His mother had told him never to trust people without smiley lines. It means they can't laugh, she said, and people who can't laugh don't have souls. What's a soul? he'd asked. It's all the kind things that a person's ever done, she said. It shows in their face when they smile, because laughter is the music of the soul. If the soul never hears music then it dies, which is why unkind people don't have smiley lines.
He was sure it was true even if his understanding of the soul was confined to counting wrinkles. His mother had loads. Fox had none. The man on the lawn had creased his eyes every time he smiled. Confusion began when he thought about the old man at the window. In his simplistic philosophy age bestowed soul, but how could a murderer have a soul? Wasn't killing people the unkindest thing of all?
Bella, too, watched the woman walk away. She was angry with herself for repeating Fox's words verbatim. It wasn't her business to wreck other people's lives. Nor could she see the point. "How's that gonna help us get on with the neighbors?" she said aloud.
"If they're at each other's throats, they won't be at ours."
"You're a bit of a ruthless bastard, ain't you?"
"Maybe… when I want something."
Bella glanced at him. "And what's that, Fox? Because you sure haven't brought us here to be sociable. I reckon you've tried that already, and it didn't work."
A flash of humor gleamed in his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you've been here before and got sussed, darlin'. I reckon the posh accent didn't go down as well with this lot-" she jabbed a thumb toward the village-"as it does with a bunch of ignorant travelers… and you got slung out on your arse. It's not just your face you're hiding, it's your fucking voice… so are you gonna tell me why?"
His eyes went cold. "Mind the barrier," was all he said.
12
Nancy backed up toward the gate, narrowing her eyes against the sun to stare at the Manor's facade, while Mark dragged his heels several yards behind. Aware that Eleanor Bartlett could return at any moment, he wanted to keep Nancy away from the road, but she was more interested in a vigorous wisteria that was dislodging slates from the roof. "Is the building listed?" she asked him.
Mark nodded. "Grade Two. It's eighteenth century."
"What's the local council like? Does it monitor for structural damage?"
"I've no idea. Why do you ask?"
She pointed to the bargeboards beneath the eaves, which were showing signs of wet rot in the shredding wood. There had been similar damage at the back of the house, where the beautiful stone walls were streaked with lichen from water leaking out of the gutters on that side. "There's a lot of repair work needs doing," she said. "The gutters are coming away because the wood underneath is rotten. It's the same at the back. All the bargeboards need replacing."
He moved up beside her and glanced along the road. "How do you know so much about houses?"
"I'm a Royal Engineer."
"I thought you built bridges and mended tanks."
She smiled. "Obviously our PR isn't as good as it ought to be. We're jacks-of-all-trades. Who do you think builds accommodation for displaced people in war zones? Certainly not the Cavalry."
"That's James."
"I know. I looked him up in the army list. You really ought to persuade him to have the repairs done," she said seriously. "Damp wood's a breeding ground for the dry-rot fungus when the temperature heats up… and that's a nightmare to get rid of. Do you know if the timber's been treated inside?"
He shook his head, drawing on his knowledge of property conveyancing. "I wouldn't think so. It's a mortgage requirement, so it's usually done when a house changes hands… but this one's been in the family since before wood preservative was invented."