On the whole, it was not a bad village, he decided, located as it was in one of those small sections of East Anglia which are not flat as a pancake and windswept by icy gales coming straight from the North Pole. Clearly, though, it had come down in the world in the past few centuries. It probably had less than a thousand inhabitants, most of whom lived in minuscule cottages along the diminutive main street and in outlying farmhouses and labourers’ cottages. The church, on the other hand, would have done a fair-sized city proud. It was vast, with enough space to sit every villager and still have room to spare. The square, grim tower dominated the entire landscape and the lack of any other building of comparable grandeur nearby only emphasized that the village had not yet fully recovered from the Black Death.
Apart from that there was a small, self-enclosed settlement of modern houses on the outskirts built for people who wanted to live in the country but had no desire to give up either the form or appearance of suburban life, and Weller House itself.
This lay at the end of a grand, if a little neglected, avenue and had been built, so Argyll guessed, in the late seventeenth century. Subsequent modernizers had Greekified one side in the nineteenth century, and a few decades later had Gothicized the other so that the house looked strikingly like an example from a textbook of architectural styles. The result was charming, though. Just the right size, too. Not a gigantic palace, but something you could live in and still impress every neighbour for twenty miles around.
Quiet and tranquil as well, he added to himself. About three-quarters of a mile out, cut off from the rabble by still-extensive—if overgrown—grounds which turned into scruffy woodland, a tall stone wall and a large, rusty iron gate that gave on to the main road. Once upon a time the stone wall was to keep the peasants at bay; now it served to keep out all the noise of the modern age. Adaptability, that was the thing.
Alas, more than stone walls were needed. Just as Argyll was thinking how quiet it was, there came another low rumble from somewhere over the horizon. As he stood there, trying to work out what sort of storm was in the offing, the sound grew in volume and changed from something that resembled a slow-motion roll of thunder into an ever more high-pitched whine. Then, with an explosive blast that made the ground beneath his feet vibrate, two black and very threatening shapes shot through the air a few hundred feet above him, flashing through the skies at an almost unbelievable speed. Then they disappeared over the line of trees at the far end of the grounds, and the noise slowly dissipated once again.
“What in God’s name was that?” he asked his new hostess, who appeared to pay no attention to the phenomenon. She merely glanced at her watch.
“Five-thirty,” she said mysteriously. “Must have been bombing Scotland again.”
“Eh?”
They’re F1-11s,” she explained with all the indifference that long familiarity breeds. “American bombers,” she added, lest Argyll’s aircraft recognition skills be rusty. “Their base is about five miles away, and we’re underneath their flight path. When they’re feeling a bit perky, they see the avenue cut through the trees, and can’t resist belting up it for all they’re worth. Bloody noisy, aren’t they?”
“Can’t anyone stop them? The house’ll fall down if it vibrates like that.”
She pointed up at the house, and one long crack coming down the side. “I’m trying to persuade the Americans it’s all the fault of their pilots and that they should pay for it. In fact, I suspect that crack appeared before the Wright brothers were even born, but never mind. With a bit of luck they’ll cough up before they go.”
“Go where?”
She shrugged. “Wherever they come from. The base is closing, as they think there’s nothing to defend us from any more. Disaster.”
“Why? It’ll be much quieter.”
“Yes. And that’s the problem. No commuters want to live here because it’s so noisy; so when they pack up, Weller will become another bedroom community. Also, the Americans were incredibly generous. They so wanted to be liked they paid for every house for miles around to have double-glazing; repaved all the roads their lorries used, and threw annual parties and excursions for the local children. Wonderful people. Much better than the local council. And the party’s over. The general feeling round these parts is that it’s all the fault of the Russians for being so weak and feeble. Come along.”
Digesting this strange analysis of geo-politics, Argyll followed Mrs. Verney through the big wooden doors covered with peeling and blistered paint, and into the hallway. He waited patiently, examining distinct signs of woodworm in the dark brown panelling, while she worked herself up into an artificial fit of indignation and then telephoned the base commander to protest about his pilots using her arboretum for target practice. Yet again, Colonel, yet again, as she put it so primly.
“Now, then,” she said afterwards. “Tea. And gossip. But tea first.” Then she led the way down a grim staircase to a kitchen so ancient that it might well have been transported complete for exhibition on Edwardian domesticity, and began to brew up.
“No modern equipment, and no servants to work the old equipment either,” she observed. “The worst of both worlds. I spend my life trying to fix the fuses when they blow. It’s amazing how much you learn about electrical circuitry when you join the landed gentry.”
“I thought you were born into it. Isn’t that the whole point?”
“Depends on how resilient the breed is. In the case of my family, not very. They die like flies. I’m about the last. My Uncle Godfrey, who reduced the place to the dire state which you can see, dropped off his perch about fifteen years ago. His daughter died last winter. Leaving me this bloody mausoleum, for which generosity I was not overly grateful. And her dog, of course. Worst day of my life, when I inherited this place. The dog’s OK, though.”
“You don’t have to live here, do you? Couldn’t you just close it up and move into a comfortable bungalow?”
She sighed as she poured the boiling water into a kettle the size of a bathtub. “Then who’d fix the fuses when they blow? Or the plumbing when it gets stuck? Or the roof when it leaks? Without constant attention this baroque slum would fall down in a week. You can’t just walk out and leave it. And before you suggest it, don’t think I haven’t thought about it. Fat insurance policy, nice fire, and me crying my eyes out as I cash the check.”
Argyll sat down at the kitchen table and grinned at her.
“But, of course, I’d get caught, wouldn’t I? And I’m damned if I’m going to spend the rest of my life in jail for this place.”
“You can’t give it to someone?”
She snorted. “Who? I’m the only Beaumont who’s ever earned a penny. If I can’t manage, that lot certainly couldn’t. The only thing to be said for them is that they’re too sensible to try. They know a loser when they see one.”
“What about the National Trust?”
“They’d take it. But not encumbered with debts, which is the problem at the moment. So I’m stuck with it, unless I can lay my hands on some cash. Funny world, isn’t it? I don’t suppose you have a couple of million you have no use for? We could turn the place into a conference centre, or fill it with geriatrics and squeeze every last penny out of them.”
“Not on me.”
“Pity.”
“No children, then?”
“Three. Twins and a single. They’re all scattered to the winds, thank God. I mean, I love them dearly, but now they’re off learning for themselves how beastly life is, I find my existence is very much calmer. Quite like being young again.”