Blood-Tied (9 page)

‘And it’s the nature of her request which troubles me,’ continued Mr Evans. ‘Ordinarily I would have expected to pass over the deeds of the cottage to the buyer’s solicitor after the sale, or if a mortgage is involved to the relevant building society or bank, but Mrs Roberts is quite adamant that, not only has she no need of legal representation, but I am to forward the deeds directly to her as she has secured a buyer and will conduct the transaction herself.’

‘Herself?’ Esme was alarmed. Immediately she thought of the old lady’s anxious behaviour. The two things must be linked. It was too much of a coincidence. The need to uncover exactly what was causing Mrs Roberts’s anxiety was becoming ever more pressing.

Mr Evans laid one hand over the other across the letter on his desk. ‘I am most concerned, Mrs Quentin. Her daughter was most insistent that Mrs Roberts’s affairs should be dealt with as a matter of urgency following her death. I did my best to adhere to her request, so far as the procedure allows, you understand. Perhaps Mrs Roberts felt I hadn’t moved hastily enough.’

Esme inclined her head. ‘Did Miss Roberts say why there was such a need for urgency?’

‘Not directly. People these days always want everything done yesterday, as is the way of the world, but Miss Roberts didn’t strike me as that type of person.’

‘You said, she didn’t say directly,’ noted Esme. ‘Did she imply something, though?’

‘It was a feeling I had. There was a nervousness about her manner which was quite disconcerting. I put it down to her illness at first. She explained that, of course. I could fully understand things needed to be put in place urgently because she had little time left, but as to afterwards it made no sense.’

‘Would you like me to speak to Mrs Roberts?’ Esme wondered whether she should involve Christine Rowcliffe but decided against it. If Mr Evans had felt that course of action to be appropriate he would have already followed it himself.

‘I will write, of course,’ Mr Evans was saying. ‘But if you could impress upon her that there is no reason why I can’t do the conveyance for the cottage in respect of the buyer she says she has. Of course the current buyers will be disappointed, but contracts hadn’t been exchanged so…’

‘You already have a buyer?’

‘Yes, indeed. Miss Roberts had been in negotiation with the History & Heritage Association. The cottage is quite a gem, I believe. From a historical perspective, I mean. The trust saves and renovates old properties of interest, apparently, and rents them out to raise money for their work.’

‘Yes, so I understand,’ murmured Esme. Why was Mrs Roberts so determined to sell to someone else when a buyer was all lined up? Mr Evans had been led to believe that everything had been agreed between them. So why question it now? What had changed?

‘I assume she also intends to sell the other land to this buyer,’ added Mr Evans.

‘Other land?’

‘The wood. The Woodland Trust was to take that on.’ Mr Evans gave a casual shrug of the shoulders. ‘Perhaps Mrs Roberts and her daughter hadn’t seen eye to eye on the potential purchasers. Maybe it’s as simple as that.’

Esme assured Mr Evans that she would see what she could do to clarify Mrs Roberts’s motives. By the time she left his office her head was reeling. Why reject buyers who must, by now, be close to the point when a sale could go through? Why start again? And who was this other buyer?

As she stepped into the street her earlier thoughts came to mind, about whether the cottage no longer being owned by Sir Charles had come as a surprise to his beneficiary, whoever he was, or she, or even they.

What if he, she or they had believed the cottage to be still part of the estate? Or had reason to believe that it should still be? Had Daisy had doubts as to the legitimacy of Polly’s ownership? If Sir Charles
was
Daisy’s father and he’d passed the cottage on to Polly without going through the proper channels, would that explain Daisy’s instructions to Mr Evans to hurry the legalities along? Mr Evans’s words had been,
It made no sense.
But it made perfect sense if Daisy was afraid someone else had a claim on the cottage.

Esme shook her head. This was completely beside the point. The estate had already been sold. Surely it was too late for any such challenge? And anyway, if there had been any legal anomalies Mr Evans would have uncovered them by now.

She stopped suddenly in mid-step, causing a man in a suit and in a hurry to crash into her. They both uttered flustered apologies, Esme smothering a grimace at the injury she’d sustained in her leg from the corner of his briefcase. But she assured him she was fine and he sped off, presumably late for a meeting, looking distinctly wet without the benefit of a raincoat. Esme made for the park-and-ride bus-stop opposite and slumped against the semi-bench on one side of the Perspex wall.

It wouldn’t be in Mr Evans’s remit to query the ownership of the cottage, it would be that of any potential purchaser’s legal representative. Had Polly been forced to switch buyers because questions might arise about the legal anomalies that Daisy had feared? And what sort of buyer would be undeterred by such inconsistencies?

She let out a long sigh. Hadn’t she already worked that out? The one person who believed herself to be the rightful owner of the cottage in the first place? Someone who had come back into the family fold after many years, to claim her inheritance. That someone had to be Catherine Monkleigh.

15

‘That female blackbird is spending so much energy seeing off the other birds,’ commented Polly as Esme arrived at her bench in the garden at Wisteria House, ‘she’ll need twice as much food as she would if she just let them be and got on with it.’

Polly was wrapped up against the damp spring air watching the bird feeders across the other side of the lawn.

‘I didn’t realise they were so territorial,’ said Esme quietly, so as not to disturb the birds. Not that they seemed bothered by her arrival. They were obviously quite tame and used to human activity nearby.

‘Robins are usually the worst, but this blackbird has really got a bee in her bonnet.’ Polly looked up at Esme. ‘Have you found something else we overlooked in the cottage? Is that why you’re here again?’

Esme shook her head. ‘No, it isn’t that. I called in on Mr Evans yesterday.’

‘Who, dear?’ Polly’s eyes followed the sparrows flitting from the bushes to the bird table and back.

‘Of Smith, Evans and Dart,’ said Esme. ‘Your solicitors. I went to drop off the keys of the cottage.’ Was she being deliberately evasive?

Polly continued to study the birds.

‘Mr Evans was rather distressed,’ continued Esme. No response. ‘He told me you’d written to him.’ The old lady still didn’t say anything. Esme walked in front of Polly and bent down so their faces were level. ‘Is everything all right? Mr Evans was most concerned that your daughter’s instructions weren’t being carried out as she’d asked.’

Polly flashed a look at Esme. ‘Daisy would quite understand,’ she said pursing her lips.

‘But to sell a house without legal representation…’

Polly smoothed the blanket across her knee. ‘Nonsense. It’s all taken care of.’

‘But why change things?’

‘I don’t see as it’s any of your business,’ said Polly. ‘I think I’ll go back inside now.’ She started to remove the blanket. Esme took it from her and helped her up from the bench. She picked up the old lady’s walking stick and handed it to her.

‘Had you talked to Elizabeth about it?’ continued Esme as they began their slow journey down the path.

Polly halted. ‘Elizabeth will be pleased that there isn’t anything more to worry about,’ she said decisively.

Esme didn’t doubt that but she suspected that Polly was being obtuse and deliberately missing the point. She sighed. Polly wasn’t going to reveal anything. Her body language told Esme that the matter had been concluded and that was the end of it. Esme couldn’t see what else she could do. It was exactly as she had said to Lucy. All she had were suspicions.

‘Reassure me on one thing, at least,’ urged Esme. ‘Have you had it valued properly? You aren’t underselling it are you? You’re not being…swindled.’ It was the only word which came to mind. It sounded silly.

Polly patted her arm. Perhaps she sensed that Esme was about to accept the situation and relaxed. ‘There’s enough for me to see out my days here. That’s all I need.’

As they made their way back to the house, Esme desperately tried to think of something she could say to overcome the old lady’s stubbornness. She asked herself whether she should she put her concerns to Mrs Rowcliffe? But then if her policy was that the residents were not children and were, unless medically diagnosed otherwise, capable of making their own decisions, she would be dismissive. The situation was exactly the same as involving the police. What evidence did she have that there was anything illegal going on? If Polly was insistent that everything was above board, perhaps there was nothing to worry about. Esme thought of Gemma’s comment. Maybe it was Esme’s naturally suspicious tendencies. Perhaps Gemma had a point.

But Esme didn’t believe it. There were too many unanswered questions. Why had Polly seemed so anxious? Why was she so reticent about her past? Esme was still convinced that Polly knew something about Elizabeth’s accident. If only she would tell her what she knew, it might lead them to the possible attacker.

Esme felt a surge of desperation. It was like being in a bad dream when you couldn’t run fast enough to get away from the danger. She felt something was slipping away from her but she had no idea what it was. She only sensed that it was vitally important.

They reached the side entrance and Esme held the open door for Polly and assisted her into the corridor.

‘Ah, there you are, Mrs Roberts.’ Abigail was walking towards them. ‘There’s someone to see you.’

‘Who?’ Polly asked, halting abruptly. Her tone was suspicious.

‘Mrs Watts.’ Polly’s grip tightened on Esme’s arm. ‘I’ve shown her into the lounge, OK?’ The girl turned and headed back down the corridor.

Esme closed the outside door and looked at the old lady’s face. It was drained of colour.

‘What does she want?’ Polly muttered under her breath.

‘What is it?’ whispered Esme. ‘Do you want me to send her away? I can say you aren’t feeling well.’

Polly shook her head. ‘I can’t. I’ll have to see her. She wouldn’t believe you anyway. She’s got a nasty suspicious mind, has Mary.’ So Esme had remembered correctly, the name was Mary.

‘Is this the lady you used to work with?’

Polly gave a hollow laugh. ‘Lady? She’s no lady.’

‘Is she Mary Griffin, that was?’

Polly flashed an alarmed look at Esme, but didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Her reaction confirmed it. It said, how did you know?

‘Why has she suddenly decided to visit you?’ continued Esme. ‘If she upsets you so much –’

‘She won’t be coming for much longer. I told you. Soon it will be all sorted out.’ She made a move towards the door.

Esme took a step alongside her. ‘Do you want me to stay for a while? Let me take your coat, at least. Shall I go and organise some tea?’

Polly leant on her stick and looked Esme in the eye. ‘I know you mean well, Esme. But I don’t have any choice. I have to do this my way. Please leave now.’ She reached out and touched Esme’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nearly over.’ Esme watched as Polly walked carefully down the passageway and turned into the lounge.

Well, you could take a horse to water and all that, but if someone wouldn’t co-operate what could you do? Sighing, Esme buttoned her coat and walked towards the way out. As she passed the entrance to the lounge she slowed her pace. No one was about. She hovered at the partly open doorway. She could hear voices coming from inside the room. She heard Polly complaining about the intrusion.

‘Now don’t be like that,’ a whining voice answered, which she assumed to be that of Mary Watts. ‘I just wanted to check that you weren’t thinking of pulling out of our little arrangement.’

‘Why should I?’ she heard Polly say.

‘A little bird tells me that someone has been poking their nose…’

At that moment Esme looked up to see Mrs Rowcliffe coming round the corner and she was obliged to move away from the door or be caught eavesdropping. She acknowledged the matron and hurriedly made her way through the front door and on to the drive.

She stopped and took a few deep breaths to ease her exasperation with Polly’s reticence. She couldn’t take at face value what Polly said, that everything would be sorted out in due course. It couldn’t be that simple. There was still so much to understand.

But it was important that she moved fast. Everything had to be linked to this unorthodox sale of Keeper’s Cottage. It was vital that she unearthed something before the sale went through or it would be too late. But where to go from here? It was so frustrating.

Esme delved into her bag for her mobile phone and turned it on. Perhaps Lucy had come up with something. She scrolled to the records office number and made the connection. While she waited to be put through to Lucy she wandered over to her Peugeot. The morning’s early rain had left a clean fresh smell in the air and she ran her forefinger through the beads of water on the bonnet as she went through everything.

Why was the cottage such an issue? She’d asked herself the same question over and over. If the estate hadn’t already been sold on it might have been of concern to someone. Either because they disliked the idea of the original estate being broken up or were excessively greedy and wanted their full pound of flesh. But the estate had already been sold to the botanical trust and their project concerned only the ruin of the hall. They might have plans to sell the remainder of the estate to help fund the project but she couldn’t see how that would affect anything.

The phone crackled and Lucy came on the line.

‘Where’ve you been?’ she complained. ‘I’ve been leaving messages all morning.’

‘I’ve had the phone switched off. Why? What’ve you got?’

‘I found out when Sir Charles died and rooted out the obituary in the local rag.’

‘Thanks, Lu. That’s great. I’ll call in and read it.’

‘I’ve already read it and there’s something you should know.’

‘What did it say?’

‘The usual stuff, of course, but I found out something else. You remember the photo I got from the local rag?’

‘Of the charity event? Yes, what about it?’

‘His sister and nephew were in the picture, remember? Apparently his sister died later that year and because the lad’s father was dead, Sir Charles brought him up as his own.’

So it wasn’t a wife who had her nose put out of joint by the return of Catherine. It was a nephew.

‘Strange that the gardener didn’t mention him,’ said Esme. ‘I might go and have another word. This is beginning to get interesting. I’ve thought of something else, too, since I saw the solicitor. Where shall we meet? I’ll fill you in.’

‘Wait a minute. There’s more. I also checked back in the probate reports in
The Times
. It reports the values of estates.’

‘Yes, I know. I bet it was worth a quite a bit, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s just it. It was hardly worth anything. It must have been mortgaged to kingdom come. Dear old Sir Charles Monkleigh, for all his apparent wealth, was as poor as a church mouse.’