"What's Lockean theory?"
"A similar concept of private ownership. John Locke was a seventeenth-century philosopher who systematized ideas of possession. The first individual in a place acquired rights to it which could then be sold. The early American homesteaders used the principle to fence in land which hadn't been enclosed before, and the fact that it belonged to the indigenous people who didn't subscribe to the notion of enclosure was ignored."
Another man spoke, a gentler, older voice. "Akin to what these chaps are up to, then. Take what you can by ignoring the established practice of the settled community that already exists. It's interesting, isn't it? Particularly as they probably think of themselves as nomadic Indians in tune with the land rather than violent cowboys intent on exploiting it."
"Do they have a case?" asked the woman.
"I don't see how," said the older man. "Ailsa nominated the Copse as a site of scientific interest when Dick Weldon tried to fence it in, so any attempt to cut down the trees will bring the police in quicker than if they'd camped on my lawn. She was afraid Dick would do what his predecessors did and demolish an ancient natural habitat in order to acquire an extra acre of arable land. When I was a child this wood stretched half a mile toward the west. It's hardly believable now."
"James is right," said the other man. "Almost anyone in this village-even the holidaymakers-can demonstrate a history of usage long before this lot turned up. It might take a while to shift them, so the nuisance levels will be fairly high… but in the short term we can certainly stop them felling the trees."
"I don't think that's what they're doing," said the woman. "From what I can see, they're cutting the dead wood on the ground… or would be if the chainsaw hadn't packed up." She paused. "I wonder how they knew this place might be worth a shot. If the ownership of Hyde Park was in dispute then that would be newsworthy… but Shenstead? Who's even heard of the place?"
"We have a lot of holidaymakers here," said the older man. "Some of them come back year after year. Perhaps one of the travelers was brought here as a child."
There was a period of silence before the first man spoke again. "Eleanor Bartlett said they knew everyone's names… even mine, apparently. It suggests some fairly meticulous research or a helpful insider passing on knowledge. She was pretty worked up for some reason, so I'm not sure how much to believe, but she was convinced they've been spying on the village."
"It would make sense," said the woman. "You'd have to be an idiot not to recce a place before you invaded it. Have you seen anyone hanging around, James? That wood's perfect cover, particularly the elevation to the right. With a decent pair of binoculars you can probably see most of the village."
Aware that Fox was concentrating on what was being said, Wolfie carefully twisted his head to make sure he wasn't missing anything. Some of the words were too complicated for him to understand, but he liked the voices. Even the murderer's. They sounded like actors, just as Fox did, but he took most pleasure from the lady's voice because there was a soft lilt in it that reminded him of his mother.
"You know, Nancy, I think I've been very foolish," said the older man then. "I thought my enemies were closer to home… but I wonder if you're right… I wonder if it's these people who've been mutilating Ailsa's foxes-such unbelievable cruelty. It's a sickness-muzzles smashed and brushes lopped off while the poor things are still al-"
For no reason that he understood, Wolfie's world suddenly exploded in a flurry of movement. Hands clapped against his ears, deafening him, before he was whisked upside down and thrown over Fox's shoulder. Disorientated, weeping with fear, he was run through the wood and thrown to the ground in front of the fire. Fox's mouth, pressed up against his face, grated words that he could only partially hear.
"Have… been watching? That woman… when… she get there?… heard what they say? Who's Nancy?"
Wolfie had no idea why Fox was so angry, but his eyes widened when he saw him reach for the razor in his pocket.
"What the hell are you doing?" demanded Bella angrily, barging Fox away and kneeling beside the terrified child. "He's a kid, for Christ's sake. Look at him, he's scared out of his wits."
"I caught him sneaking down to the Manor."
"So?"
"I don't want him queering our pitch."
"Jesus wept!" she growled. "And you think frightening the life out of him is the way to do it. Come here, darlin'," she said taking Wolfie in her arms and standing up. "He's skin and bone," she accused Fox. "You ain't feeding him right."
"Blame his mother for abandoning him," said Fox indifferently, taking a twenty-pound note from his pocket. "You feed him. I don't have time. That should keep him going for a while." He stuffed the money between her arm and Wolfie's body.
Bella eyed him suspiciously. "How come you're so flush all of a sudden?"
"None of your fucking business. As for you," he said, jabbing a finger under Wolfie's nose, "if I catch you round that place again, you'll wish you'd never been born."
"I didn't mean no harm," the child wailed. "I was only looking for Mum and li'l Cub. They's gotta be somewhere, Fox. They's gotta be somewhere…"
Bella hushed her own three children to silence as she put plates of spaghetti bolognese in front of them. "I want to talk to Wolfie," she said, sitting beside him and encouraging him to tuck in. Her children, all girls, eyed the stranger solemnly before bending obediently to their food. One looked older than Wolfie, but the other two were about his age, and it made him shy to be among them because he was acutely aware of how dirty he was.
"What happened to your mum?" asked Bella.
"Dunno," he muttered, staring at his plate.
She picked up his spoon and fork and put them in his hands. "Come on, eat up. This ain't charity, Wolfie. Fox has paid, don't forget, and he'll be mad as a hatter if he don't get his money's worth. Good lad," she said approvingly. "You've got a lot of growing to do. How old are you?"
"Ten."
Bella was shocked. Her eldest daughter was nine and Wolfie's height and body weight were well below hers. On the last occasion when she'd seen him, back in the summer at Barton Edge, Wolfie and his brother had rarely emerged from behind their mother's skirt. Bella had assumed their timidity was due to their age, placing Wolfie at six or seven, and his brother at three. Certainly the mother had been timid, though Bella couldn't remember what her name was now, assuming she'd ever known it.
She watched the child shovel food into his mouth as if he hadn't eaten in weeks. "Is Cub your brother?"
"Yeah."
"How old is he?"
"Six."
Christ! She wanted to ask him if he'd ever been weighed, but she didn't want to alarm him. "Did either of you ever go to school, Wolfie? Or get taught by the traveling teachers?"
He lowered his spoon and fork with a shake of his head. "Fox said there was no point. Mum taught me and Cub to read and write. We went to libraries sometimes," he offered. "I like computers best. Mum showed me how to work the Net. I've learned lots off that."
"What about the doctor? Did you ever go to the doctor?"
"No," he said. "Ain't never been ill." He paused. "Haven't never been ill," he corrected himself.
Bella wondered if he had a birth certificate, if the authorities even knew of his existence. "What's your mother's name?"