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She found Uncle Andra already in the bar. He was talking to a man who was about his own age or a little older and who turned out to be Mr Malvern.

“I’m delighted, to welcome you here,” Mr Malvern said, just as if it was still his private home. “As I am to welcome your uncle. I’ve often wondered what had happened to him—other than having made a name for himself professionally! But now I’m to find out about his secret life, and I’m looking forward to that all the more because he’s produced a charming niece like a rabbit out of a hat!”

Amid laughter Jeremy, who was in charge of the bar, asked her what Meg would have to drink. Meg hesitated. She knew just what she wanted, but she also
knew that almost certainly her first drink would be on the house and what she wanted was on the expensive side. Uncle Andra came to the rescue.

“As a rule, Meg’s drinking habits err on the modest side,” he remarked, his eyes twinkling. “But if there’s something to celebrate, she rises to the occasion! A dry Martini, Meg?”

“Yes, please,” Meg said rather shyly, and looked cautiously at Jeremy as he mixed her drink. He, too, had changed, and in the black and white of a conventional dinner suit looked even handsomer than he had done before. As he handed her the drink, their fingers touched momentarily—and Meg had the feeling that it wasn’t just by chance.

“I’m glad you feel this is an occasion for celebration,” he said softly, and raised his own glass in salutation.

Then the bar began to fill up and he was too busy to talk to her any more, but once or twice their eyes met, and that was somehow quite as satisfactory as any conversation could have been. She knew quite well that as soon as he could manage it he would seek her company.

And that was exactly what happened. After a very good dinner Uncle Andra announced that Mr Malvern had invited him to spend the evening with him in his private sitting room to play bridge with two other men.

“Sure you don’t mind, Meg?” he asked anxiously.

“Not a bit,” Meg assured him. “I’ll read for a bit in the lounge and then turn in early. I really am rather tired.”

So tired, in fact, that curled up in a comfortable armchair she soon found that it was too much bother to read and after a while the magazine fell unheeded to the ground. Meg was fast asleep. She had no idea how much later it was that the feeling of being watched penetrated through the mists of sleep and she opened her eyes to find that Jeremy was standing just beside her.

“I’m sorry,” he said remorsefully. “I’d just decided not to disturb you—”

“But I’m glad you did,” Meg told him. “I’ve been asleep—” she glanced at her watch, “goodness, the best part of an hour! More than long enough!” Then, apprehensively: “Is anything wrong? Uncle—?”

“He’s as right as rain—if that isn’t a rather unfortunate description,” Jeremy replied. “He and Father are having a battle royal with the two other men! They’re all so near to the same standard of expertise that it’s a toss-up who’ll finally come out on top. What I came to say was that some of the youngsters are having an informal dance to records and I wondered if you’d like to join in. I’m free for an hour and I’d love to partner you—if you’re not too tired?”

He looked at her so pleadingly that even if the suggestion hadn’t made any appeal, she wouldn’t have had the heart to refuse. Actually, the prospect delighted her and she told him so frankly.

“It’s just what I want to take the taste of today’s mishaps out of my mind,” she told him. “But would you mind if before we dance we have a little talk?”

“Not in the least,” Jeremy assured her, and sat down opposite to her looking rather anxious. “Something wrong? Not with the hotel, I hope?”

“Good gracious, no!” Meg said quickly. “I think it’s wonderful. I’ve never stopped at a hotel where one is looked after so delightfully.”

Jeremy looked pleased, but he waited for her to start the conversation—and that was something Meg didn’t find very easy. At last, rather jerkily, she asked:

“Do you know—Sir Hector Heronshaw?”

Jeremy looked surprised. Evidently her question had come as a surprise.

“Oh yes, I know him,” he said drily.

“Are you friends?”

‘‘No,” Jeremy replied shortly. “Hardly even acquaintances. Combatants might be the best description.”

“You mean you find him difficult to get on with?” Meg pursued earnestly, and Jeremy laughed wryly.

“Impossible would be a better description,” he told her. He looked at her curiously. “It almost sounds as
if you’ve already had some experience of him," he remarked. “Has he made himself unpleasant to you?”

“He certainly has!” Meg said decisively, and briefly —and quite accurately—told him just what had happened.

“Yes, that’s typical of the man,” Jeremy said when she had finished. “The trouble is, he’s got too used to giving orders—he was an R.N. captain before he succeeded to the property and he can’t get over the feeling that he has the right to lay down the law, as we’ve found to our annoyance—and cost! He objected to us turning the house into a hotel—and he did his best to baulk us!”

“But why?” Meg asked indignantly. “What’s it got to do with him?”

“Nothing, one would say,” Jeremy admitted with a shrug. “But there it is—he regards what we’ve done as sacrilege and so he tried to prevent it. Fortunately for us, he met with no success, but that didn’t stop him having another go. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but behind the hotel there’s a paddock in which we’ve got fifty permanently placed caravans—good ones and well kept. We’ve also every possible amenity laid on—far more than we could have been asked to supply. But that made no difference to Heronshaw. He had an even more determined attempt to throw a spanner in the works and he almost succeeded. However, not quite! It’s left him rather sore. Understandably, perhaps. He’s not a man to enjoy defeat. So, as I said, definitely not friends!”

Meg pondered frowningly over what he had said.

“Well, since he’s the sort that regards himself as the local lawgiver and you got the better of him, I suppose it’s understandable that he doesn’t feel kindly disposed towards you,” she said slowly. “And presumably he has some reason which seems good enough to him for stopping people using the by-road. But that doesn’t explain why he was so abominably rude to Uncle Andra. Even if he didn’t recognise him, he did know who he was, because Uncle Andra told him. But Sir Hector hadn’t
the good manners to say who
he
was or to give any explanation as to why he’d put up the gate. I simply don’t understand—it’s almost as if he’s got a grudge against Uncle—but that doesn’t make sense! They haven’t met since Sir Hector was just a boy. So what could have made him behave like that?”

Jeremy’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You really don’t know?”

“No, I don’t,” Meg asserted vigorously. “Do you?”

“I’ve a pretty good idea,” Jeremy said slowly. “That cottage of Nanny’s—do you know how it came to belong to the Sturts in the first place?”

“Of course I do,” Meg replied. “Generations ago it was part of the Heronshaw estate. It was used as a gamekeeper’s cottage. His name was Sturt and he was Nanny’s grandfather—or great-grandfather, I’m not quite sure which. Anyway, the heir to the Heronshaw estate was just a little boy and the gamekeeper saved him from being drowned at considerable risk to himself. So, as a reward, he was given the cottage and the little paddock behind it, in perpetuity. That’s how it came to belong to Nanny. But it’s such an old story. It can’t have anything to do with Sir Hector.”

“He wouldn’t agree with you there! You see, apparently the Heronshaws have had their own interpretation of the terms on which the gift was made. It was to remain the property of the Sturts
so long as there was one of that name to inherit it.
But if the Sturt family died out, as it did with Nanny, then the property would revert to the Heronshaw estate. Instead of that happening, Nanny left it to your uncle, and there’s not a thing Heronshaw can do about it because there’s no documentary proof, apparently, that the gift was in any way conditional. Now do you see why Heronshaw has got his knife into your uncle?”

MEG stared at Jeremy in complete bewilderment.

“But—but surely that can’t be true! Somebody would have known about it—”

“Maybe they did—at the time,” he shrugged. “But it’s a long while ago. People forget, and in any case, there always
has
been a Sturt to succeed, so the question simply didn’t arise.” He looked at her in a concerned way. “I wish I hadn’t told you. It’s worrying you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Meg acknowledged. “This, on top of everything else—it’s a horrible complication. And just how Uncle Andra is going to take it, I hate to think! He’s about the most honest person I’ve ever known, and even if, as you say, there isn’t any proof, he’ll still feel uneasy in case there is, really, but it’s got mislaid. I wonder—you say that people forget that sort of thing in time, Jeremy, but
you
know about it. Well, how did you find out? Who told you?”

Jeremy’s forehead creased.

“You know, I can’t honestly say,” he told her, wondering if she had realised that she had called him by his first name and deciding not to remark on the fact—yet. “Not just one person, anyway. I think I’ve picked up a bit here and a bit there-—but does it really matter?”

“I don’t know,” Meg confessed. “At the moment, I can’t work out what does matter and what doesn’t But there’s another thing. Do you know how long Nanny was in hospital ?”

“No, I don’t—not exactly, that is. The nearest I can get to it is several months. But why do you want to know?”

“Because the cottage is in such an appalling state,” Meg explained. “It looks as if she was away years rather
than months. It’s absolutely revolting. And it’s worse than even just natural decay through neglect. There’s been downright vandalism as well. But who has been responsible for that? I mean, it looks like downright spite—and who would feel like that towards a poor old soul like Nanny?”

“That’s quite a question,” Jeremy replied, rather reluctantly, it seemed to Meg. “And one I can’t really answer, although—” he hesitated.

“Yes?” Meg urged.

“This is only guesswork,” he warned her. “But I think it might be linked up with the resentment that there is locally against Sir Hector. It’s been growing ever since he stopped people using the by-road—and there’ve been other things as well—”

“I don’t understand,” Meg said doubtfully. “I mean, even if people wanted to get even with Sir Hector, why pick on Nanny’s cottage? You’ve said yourself that there’s no proof that it was a conditional gift, so what harm could they think they were doing him?”

“I see your point,” Jeremy acknowledged slowly. “Unless—don’t you think it’s possible that the Heronshaws have sat very tight on the fact that they couldn’t prove their right to it when Nanny died and everybody assumed that it would revert to the estate? I think it’s very likely that Nanny kept her own counsel about leaving it to your uncle, and it may be that it’s only since the damage was done that it’s become common knowledge. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose it would,” Meg admitted with a shudder. “But it’s pretty beastly, isn’t it? All that malice—”

“Yes,” Jeremy agreed, “it is. And I’ve got a nasty feeling that we’re not at the end of it yet. That’s the worst of it. Once this sort of thing starts it gathers momentum—”

“Oh, don’t!” Meg besought him, almost in tears. “You know, I’m beginning to wish that Nanny hadn’t left Uncle the cottage—and that we’d never come here! It’s all too horrible!”

“Here, don’t say that!” Jeremy said in alarm. “It’ll
work out all right, you’ll see. What a fool I’ve been to be so depressing! Say you forgive me, there’s a dear! ”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Meg told him. “All you’ve done is answer my questions. And perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it will all work out. I hope so, anyway.”

“That’s the spirit!” Jeremy encouraged, jumping to his feet. “And now—” holding out his hand, “let’s forget all about it and dance, shall we?”

“Yes, let’s,” Meg agreed as she put her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet.

Jeremy was a very good dancer and for the time being at least she forgot her problems in her present enjoyment. It was only later, when she settled down in her comfortable bed, that her apprehensions returned. It was as if a great cloud, even more threatening than the one that had drenched them earlier in the day, was hanging over Blytheburn. A cloud that, this time, wasn’t a natural phenomenon but was embodied in a human being—Sir Hector Heronshaw. Like an ogre he seemed to loom over everything, and she knew that she was frightened, all the more so because, for the time being at least, she wanted to keep her fears to herself. She had asked Jeremy, when they had said good night, not to tell Uncle Andra what he had told her and to ask his father not to speak of it either. Perhaps it might be possible to find out the truth on her own
—
but it was going to take all her courage to do that!

Uncle Andra did the only thing possible. He called in an expert to make a thorough survey of the cottage and to give an opinion as to the cost of the necessary repairs. Naturally, this was not a thing that could be done in five minutes and Uncle Andra visibly chafed under the delay.

Not that Meg found that surprising. Even without the expert’s report, it was clear that it was going to be a long and expensive job and that it would be months before the place could be made fit to live in. And the time element was worrying. At the end of the month the hotel would be closed for visitors, although the
Malverns would continue to live there. And then what? Where could they live in the meantime? There didn’t seem to be anywhere locally, and not unnaturally, Uncle Andra wanted to be on the spot to keep an eye on the work.

Then, at last, the report arrived and it was even more depressing than they had anticipated. Practically speaking only the walls and the roof where it wasn’t damaged were sound. Everything else would have to be gutted. Even the stone floor would have to be taken up so that some sort of barrier to the rising damp could be inserted. And the cost! It was so astronomical that Uncle Andra whistled in dismay.