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."
She cupped both hands over her forehead. "He could end up with a huge bill if he lets it go. The roof looks as if it's sinking in places… there's a hell of a dip under the middle chimney."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know without looking at the rafters. It depends how long it's been like that. You need to check with some old photographs of the house. It may just be that they used green wood in that part of the construction and it bowed under the weight of the slates. If not-" she lowered her hands-"the timber in the attic may be as rotten as the bargeboards. You can usually smell it. It's pretty unpleasant."
Mark remembered the odor of decay when he arrived on Christmas Eve. "That's all he needs," he remarked grimly, "the bloody roof to cave in as well. Have you ever read Poe's 'The Fall of the House of Usher'? Do you know what the symbolism is?"
"No… and no."
"Corruption. A corrupt family infects the fabric of their house and brings the masonry down on their heads. Remind you of anything?"
"Colorful but entirely improbable," she said with a smile.
A flustered voice spoke behind them. "Is that you, Mr. Ankerton?"
Mark swore under his breath as Nancy gave a start of surprise and swung around to find Eleanor Bartlett, looking every bit her age, on the other side of the gate. Nancy's immediate reaction was sympathy-the woman looked frightened-but Mark was cool to the point of rudeness. "This is a private conversation, Mrs. Bartlett." He put his hand on Nancy's arm to draw her away.
"But it's important," Eleanor said urgently. "Has Dick told you about these people at the Copse?"
"I suggest you ask him," he told her curtly. "I don't make a habit of passing on what people may or may not have said to me." He put his mouth to Nancy's ear. "Walk away," he begged. "Now!"
She gave a brief nod and wandered down the drive, and he thanked God for a woman who didn't ask questions. He turned back to Eleanor. "I've nothing to say to you, Mrs. Bartlett. Good day."
But she wasn't about to be rebuffed so easily. "They know your name," she said rather hysterically. "They know everybody's names… what sort of cars they drive… everything. I think they've been spying on us."
Mark frowned. "Who're 'they'?"
"I don't know. I only saw two of them. They're wearing scarves over their mouths." She reached out a hand to pluck at his sleeve, but he stepped back sharply as if she were leprous. "They know you're James's solicitor."
"Courtesy of you, presumably," he said with an expression of distaste. "You've whipped up half the countryside to believe I'm representing a murderer. There's no law against revealing my name, Mrs. Bartlett, but there are laws of libel and slander and you've broken all of them in relation to my client. I hope you can afford to defend yourself…and pay damages when Colonel Lockyer-Fox wins-" he jerked his head in the direction of Shenstead House-"otherwise your property will be forfeit."
There was no agility of thought in Eleanor's mind. The pressing issue of the moment was the travelers in the Copse, and that was the question she addressed. "I didn't tell them," she protested. "How could I? I've never seen them before in my life. They said the land's terra nullius… I think that was the expression… something to do with Lockean theory… and they're claiming it by adverse possession. Is that legal?"
"Are you asking for my professional opinion?"
"Oh, for goodness' sake!" she said impatiently, anxiety bringing sparks of color back into her cheeks. "Of course I am. It's James who's going to be affected by them. They're talking about building structures on the Copse." She waved a hand up the road. "Go and look for yourself if you don't believe me."
"My fees are three hundred pounds per hour, Mrs. Bartlett. I am prepared to negotiate a flat rate for advice on legislation re adverse possession, but in view of the complexity of the issue, I would almost certainly have to consult counsel. His charges would be in addition to the agreed amount, and that could take the final figure well over five thousand. Do you still want to engage me?"
Eleanor, whose sense of humor excluded irony, interpreted this answer as deliberately obstructive. Whose side was he on, she wondered, as she looked down the drive after Nancy's black-clad figure? Was this another of them? Was James conspiring with these people? "Are you responsible for this?" she demanded angrily. "Is that how they know so much about the village? Was it you who told them the land was unowned? They said you were in situ and knew something about this wretched terra nullius nonsense."
Mark experienced a similar revulsion to Wolfie's. Ailsa always said Eleanor was older than she looked, and, close up, Mark could see she was right. Her roots needed seeing to and there were pinch marks around her mouth from bad-tempered pouting when she didn't get her own way. She wasn't even handsome, he thought in surprise, just tight-skinned and waspish. He put his hands on the gate and leaned forward, dislike narrowing his eyes.
"Would you care to explain the twisted logic that gave rise to those questions?" he said in a voice that grated with contempt, "or is making false accusations a disease with you? This isn't normal behavior, Mrs. Bartlett. Normal people do not force themselves into private conversations and refuse to leave when asked… nor do they make wild allegations without some basis in fact."
She quailed slightly. "Then why are you treating this as a joke?"