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Chapter 1
The stranger was already sitting on the bench outside the Royal
Oak when the first bright streaks of dawn appeared in the east.
It was a typical early morning in that part of the country: a slight
mist lying over the fields; cows already in their milking parlours;
the cocks crowing; the early traffic booming along the bypass; and
the birds singing their morning hymn. Malcolm the milkman, who
didn’t speak until he’d been delivering milk for at least two hours,
gave him the briefest of nods as he left a full crate outside the pub
door.
Beginning his schedule of opening up the Village Store, Tom
propped the door wide open. Blinds up, lights on, newspapers
heaved in from the door step, coffee machine started up for those
who bought their breakfast in the Store before leaving for work in
Culworth, and finally a general look around to make sure everything
was in smart order for the day.
The stranger stretched his long legs out in front of him, locking
his ankles together, and observed the ancient village waking
up. He noted the geese by their pond beginning to take notice
of the new day by flexing their wings. Yes, this was the place,
he thought. The thatched roofs and the cottages crouching round
the green would attract everyone, and the best part about it was
there were no signs of the twenty-first century; not an aerial, not
a lamppost, not a billboard, not a house number, not a telephone
line, nothing to mar the beautiful thirteenth-century ambience.
Best of all there were the stocks. Believe it or believe it not, they
were complete, top and bottom, and untouched by any modern
repairs. In addition, the whole of Culworth was waiting just eight
miles away to make it a success. The pub, not yet stirring, would
provide the victuals. Very handy, that. The punters always needed
food and drink.
In the man’s inside pocket was information which would knock
the villagers sideways if they tried to stop him. That was the advantage
of being a lapsed historian. He knew exactly where to go
to find old deeds and agreements; old, very old, information about
the land. He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his corduroy
jacket and pulled out a copy of the fourteenth-century deed agreed
by one of the first Templetons at the Big House. He smoothed his
fingers over the old writing, relishing the antique spelling and the
elaborate language, a smile curving his long mouth, illuminating
his face.
A shadow flashed past him and a loud ‘good morning’ broke the
peace. God! He was a big chap.
The stranger hailed him. ‘Good morning to you. You’re on the
road early.’
The runner broke step, turned back and looked down at him.
The man on the bench was shaken by the runner’s expression.
It was . . . he’d have liked to use the word ‘heavenly’ or even ‘angelic’ but that was ridiculous. Compassionate, perhaps, sounded
more realistic. Whatever it was, it shook him.
‘Good morning, sir. Nice village you have here, sir.’
‘Indeed. Can’t stop, though. Just starting my morning run.’ The
runner took in the beard, the dark brown corduroy trousers and
jacket, the slightly frayed tweedy shirt, the ancient walking boots.‘I see you’re not inclined to my way of greeting the day.’ He
smiled.
And again there was that strange feeling of otherworldliness.
‘Not my scene.’
‘A visitor, are you?’
The tall man got a nod for his answer. He smiled again. ‘Well,
must be on my way or I shan’t be back in time for breakfast.’ He
nodded a goodbye and left, picking up his pace without effort.
The stranger watched him circle the green and continue on
down . . . now what was it? Ah! Yes, that was Shepherds Hill.
But someone else took his eye. She was opening the gate into
the school playground. A well-rounded woman, short and energetic,
wearing trainers, bright red cropped trousers and a sleeveless
matching top, just right for the promise the weather held for the
rest of the day. Caretaker, no doubt. He’d wait a while longer
though, see what the day still had to bring.
There was a continuous stream of people entering the Village
Store. First a trickle of shoppers collecting their newspapers and
bits and pieces, carrying their takeaway coffees and rolls to their
cars, then the mothers, after dropping their children off at the
school – that made quite a rush – then a steady stream, and quite a
collection of people who stayed to gossip outside on the pavement
where a seat had been placed and the post box stood. The local bus
stopped briefly right outside the Store, the driver clearly impatient
to be off to the bright lights of Culworth. Now that was handy, a
bus right where he needed it. And, yes, the Store was a big draw.
He rubbed his hands in glee. Turnham Malpas was more active
than he’d realized; all to the good, so far as he was concerned.
His long reverie was broken by the drawing back of the bolts
on the pub door, allowing a short, thin chap to put out a sandwich
board on the pavement announcing they were serving coffee. Like
Tom in the Store, he propped open the door and, at the same
time, took in the crate of milk. The man on the bench felt that was
somehow symptomatic of the whole village, a certain openness.
Coffee! Now that was an idea. Languidly he picked up the small
haversack he’d dropped beside the bench and went in to the pub.
From the outside he could see that it was very old, and he
almost dreaded going in because he feared being disillusioned
by finding the pub had been modernized inside. To his relief it
hadn’t. The huge inglenook fireplace was genuine, and the horse
brasses, the warming pan and the farm implements on the old brick
walls looked as though they’d grown there. Genuine through and
through. Wonderful. Because of all that, he liked the publican
even before he spoke to him; evidently he had good taste. He
found a settle, took off his cap, pushed his fingers through his hair
and called across, ‘A coffee, landlord, if you please.’
While he waited he ran his hand along the gleaming well-worn
table in front of the settle, feeling, as much as seeing, the history
which felt to ooze from every joint. It shone smooth with years
and years of polishing. He ran his fingers along the curved arm
of the settle several times and fingered the small bowl of flowers,
which proved to be genuine. Miraculously, a tray appeared, tastefully
laid with a small silver coffee pot, silver cream jug and sugar
basin, and a paper napkin.
‘And where’s that going to get him in this world? I can tell you– absolutely nowhere. He’ll never be rich.’ Neville was at his most
sneering.
Liz wondered how it had happened that he could be so bitter.
‘It won’t bring him wealth, that’s for certain, but he’s well loved
and that counts for a lot. Do you feel well loved?’
Neville drank his whiskey right to the bottom of the glass. ‘Of
course I am,’ he muttered. ‘You love me, anyway. Don’t talk
about such things in public; it’s embarrassing.’
As it sometimes can happen in a busy place, a sudden silence fell
just as Liz said, ‘Well, to be honest, I don’t feel I love you right
now.’
A woman spluttered with laughter, and Neville thought he
heard another say, ‘Not surprising!’ He was so blinded by anger
at the humiliation of it all that he banged his fist on the table
with such force that Liz leapt from her chair. She knocked over
her spritzer, which spilled across the table, and Neville narrowly
missed a stream of it running off the table and down his trousers.
He jumped up, muttered some expletive, which was completely
out of character, and stormed out of the bar.Liz paid their bill but, by the time she was outside on the pavement,
Neville had disappeared.
Standing outside and wondering what she should do next, Liz
remembered his briefcase. Had he taken it with him? She couldn’t
remember. Should she get it for him, or cause him even more
aggravation by making him have to come to collect it tomorrow?
A waiter stood in front of her holding it aloft. ‘Your . . . husband’s,
madam?’
‘Thank you, thank you very much.’
He was already home when she got there, but that was because
she’d stopped at a fish and chip shop and sat eating in the car,
feeling sorry for herself and wondering if she really wanted to be
in the explosive situation that she’d deliberately created.
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