Fox Evil (13 page)

Eleanor was more taken aback than she cared to admit. "How do you know my name?" she asked indignantly.

"Electoral register." He tapped a parr of binoculars on his chest. "I watched you come out of Shenstead House. How can we help you?"

She was at a loss for words. A courteous traveler was not a stereotype she recognized, and she immediately questioned what sort of encampment this was. For no logical reason-except that the muffled faces, army-surplus overcoats, and binoculars suggested maneuvers-she decided she was dealing with a soldier.

"There's obviously been a mistake," she said, preparing to lift the rope again. "I was told travelers had taken over the Copse."

Fox advanced and held the rope where it was. "The sign says 'keep out'," he said. "I suggest you obey it." He nodded toward a couple of Alsatians that lay on the ground near one of the buses. "They're on long tethers. It would be sensible not to disturb them."

"But what's going on?" she demanded. "I think the village has a right to know."

"I disagree."

The bald response left her scrabbling. "You can't just…" She waved an ineffectual hand. "Do you have permission to be here?"

"Give me the name of the landowner and I'll discuss terms with him."

"It belongs to the village," she said.

He tapped the "keep out" notice. "I'm afraid not, Mrs. Bartlett. There's no record of it belonging to anyone. It's not even registered as common land under the 1965 Act, and the Lockean theory of property says that when a piece of land is vacant then it may be claimed through adverse possession by anyone who encloses it, erects structures, and defends his title. We claim this land as ours unless and until someone comes forward with a deed of ownership."

"That's outrageous."

"It's the law."

"We'll see about that," she snapped. "I'm going home to call the police."

"Go ahead," said the man, "but you'll be wasting your time. Mr. Weldon's already spoken to them. You'd do better to find yourselves a good solicitor." He jerked his head toward Shenstead Manor. "Maybe you should ask Mr. Lockyer-Fox if you can use Mr. Ankerton… at least he's in situ and probably knows something about the rules and regulations re
terra nullius
. Or have you burned your boats in that direction, Mrs. Bartlett?"

Eleanor's alarm returned. Who was he? How did he know the name of James's solicitor? That certainly wasn't in the electoral register for Shenstead. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"
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.

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?"

"Treating what as a joke? An assertion by a deeply disturbed woman that people in scarves are talking about me? Does that sound sane to you?" He smiled at her expression. "I'm trying to be generous, Mrs. Bartlett. My personal view is that you're mentally ill… and my judgment is based on the recordings I've listened to of your calls to James. It might interest you to know that your friend Prue Weldon has been more intelligent. She never speaks at all, just leaves a record of her phone number. It won't stop her being charged with making malicious telephone calls, but
your
calls-" he made a ring of his thumb and forefinger-"we're going to have a field day with them. My best advice is that you see a doctor before you consult a solicitor. If your problems are as serious as I think they are, you might be able to plead mitigation when we play your tapes in open court."

"That's ridiculous," she hissed. "Tell me one thing I've said that isn't true."

"
Everything
you say is untrue," he flashed back, "and I'd like to know where you've been getting it from. Leo wouldn't speak to you. He's more of a snob than James and Ailsa have ever been, and a social climber wouldn't appeal at all-" he ran a scathing eye over her pastel outfit-"particularly the mutton-dressed-as-lamb variety. And if you believe anything Elizabeth says, you're an idiot. She'll tell you anything you want to hear… as long as the gin keeps flowing."

Eleanor gave a vicious little smile. "If it's all lies, why hasn't James reported the calls to the police?"

"
Which
calls?" he slammed back aggressively.

There was a tiny hesitation. "Mine and Prue's."

Mark made a commendable attempt to look amused. "Because he's a gentleman… and he's embarrassed on behalf of your husbands. You should listen to yourself occasionally." He put the knife in where he thought it would hurt the most. "The kindest interpretation of your rants against men and where they put their penises is that you're a closet lesbian who's never found the courage to declare herself. A more realistic interpretation is that you're a frustrated bully with obsessions about sex with strangers. Either way, it doesn't say much about your relationship with your husband. Isn't he interested anymore, Mrs. Bartlett?"

It was a throwaway line, designed to puncture her conceit, but he was surprised by the strength of her reaction. She stared at him wild-eyed, then turned and fled down the road toward her house. Well, well, he thought with surprised satisfaction. Now
that
was a hit.

He found Nancy leaning against an oak tree to the right of the terrace with her face turned to the sun and her eyes closed. Beyond her, the long vista of the lawn, peppered with trees and shrubs, dipped toward the farmland and the distant sea. Wrong county, wrong period, but it might have been a painting by Constable:
Rural setting with boy in black
.

She could have been a boy, thought Mark, taking a good look at her as he approached.
Butch as hell!
Muscular, strong-jawed, barren of makeup, too tall for comfort. She wasn't his type, he told himself firmly. He liked them delicate, blue-eyed and blond.

Like Elizabeth…?

Like Eleanor Bartlett…? Shit!

Even in relaxation and with her eyes closed, the stamp of James's genes was powerful. There was none of Ailsa's fine-boned, pale beauty, which had passed to Elizabeth, only the dark, sculptured looks that had passed to Leo. It shouldn't have worked. It was unnatural. So much strength in a woman's face ought to have been a turn-off. Instead, Mark was riveted by it.

"How did you get on?" she murmured with her eyes still closed. "Did you give her a bollocking?"

"How did you know it was me?"

"Who else could it be?"

"Your grandfather?"

She opened her eyes. "Your boots don't fit," she told him. "Every tenth step you slide the soles along the grass to get a better grip with your toes."

"God! Is that part of your training?"

She grinned at him. "You shouldn't be so gullible, Mr. Ankerton. The reason I knew it wasn't James is because he's in the drawing room… assuming I've got my bearings right. He inspected me through his binoculars, then opened the French windows. I think he wants us to go in."

"It's Mark," he said, holding out his hand, "and you're right, these boots don't fit. I found them in the scullery, because I don't have any of my own. There's not much call for Wellingtons in London."

"Nancy," she said, solemnly shaking his hand. "I noticed. You've been walking as if you had flippers on since we left the house."

He held her gaze for a moment. "Are you ready?"

Nancy wasn't sure. Her confidence had faltered as soon as she spotted the binoculars, and made out the figure behind them.
Would she ever be ready?
Her plan had gone awry from the moment Mark Ankerton opened the door. She had hoped for a private one-on-one conversation with the Colonel, which would follow an agenda set by her, but that was before she had seen his distress or realized how isolated he was. Naively she had believed she could keep an emotional distance-at least on a first meeting-but Mark's wavering had provoked her into championing the old man's cause, and this without even meeting him or knowing if the cause was a true one. She had a terrible fear suddenly that she wasn't going to like him.

Perhaps Mark read it in her eyes because he took her hat from his pocket and gave it to her. "Usher only fell because there was no one like you around," he said.

"You're a naive romantic."

"I know. It sucks."

She smiled. "I think he's guessed who I am-probably from the Herefordshire cattle sticker on my windscreen-otherwise he wouldn't have opened the French windows. Unless I look like Elizabeth, of course, and he's mistaken me for her."

"You don't," said Mark, holding his arm behind her back to encourage her forward. "Trust me… in a million years, no one would mistake you for Elizabeth."

Eleanor began in Julian's dressing room, searching through his jacket pockets and turning out his chest of drawers. From there she moved to his study, rifling through his filing cabinet and ransacking his desk. Even before she switched on his computer and scrolled through his email correspondence… the man was too blase even to use a password-the evidence of betrayal was colossal. He hadn't even bothered with the pretense of keeping the affair a secret. There was a mobile phone number on a scrap of paper in one of his jackets, a silk scarf at the bottom of his handkerchief drawer, hotel and restaurant receipts in his desk, and dozens of emails filed under the initials "GS."

Darling J, What about Tuesday? I'm free from 6.00…