Twenty-seven
As a trainee lawyer, Clare had taught herself never to scroll through emails in meetings; but a couple of weeks after the hearing, she found herself constantly fidgeting with her phone like a teenager waiting for a Snapchat message.
One evening, as she was upstairs tidying her bedroom, sipping a calming mug of camomile tea and trying not to dwell on her probable fate at the hand of the Hastings family, she heard Stop-it barking. He was bored. It had been hours since they’d last played together and they hadn’t gone for their evening walk. She glanced outside. It was dark, that sort of eerie blackness that comes in the countryside where you can’t see anything beyond your feet. She didn’t want to walk him now. She picked up her mug and took a swallow, but the tea was tepid.
Stop-it growled. A chill shot through her. It wasn’t his usual playful sound. Questions fizzed in her brain: was someone outside again? Who? Had Richard sent someone to hurt her? Why? Did he have those sorts of contacts?
An owl hooted, sending a shiver down her spine, then she heard a knock at the back door.
Clare crept downstairs. Halfway down, she realized she was carrying her mug and stopped. It wasn’t much of a weapon. Richard’s heavies would not be deterred if she hurled lukewarm tea at them. In the kitchen Stop-it was jumping up and down as if on springs, snapping at the door handle. Someone was outside. She swapped the mug for a poker.
Clare opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Her heart was racing, and she could feel the hairs standing up on her arms, mirroring Stop-it’s hackles. Who was at the back door and why hadn’t they come to the front?
With trembling fingers, she put down her weapon and called Anna. Her friend answered cheerfully, ‘Hiya, how’s—?’
Clare gasped. Her breath was rasping, her throat almost too tight for the words to squeeze through. Her voice came out in a croak. ‘There’s someone at the back door.’
‘Clare!’
The dog’s snarls were echoing round the room. As he pounced at the door, his paws were creating a thunderous rhythm against the wood. In between the bursts of noise, she heard someone knocking at the door. Clare couldn’t breathe. ‘Help me, what should I do?’ she wailed.
Stop-it crouched. His tail was bolt upright, rigid and his nose was wedged into the crack between the floor and the door. His growling was persistent, a noisy reminder of the threat. Clare felt like she was suffocating, incapable of thinking straight.
‘I’m calling the police,’ said Anna. ‘Stay where you are and do not open that door. I’ll call you straight back.’
The line went dead. Clare’s heart was hammering so loudly it sounded like it was about to break free. There was another knock on the door. Stop-it went berserk. Then she heard a faint voice; it probably wasn’t faint but just sounded that way above the cacophony coming from the dog.
‘Please, can I just come in.’ It was a soft voice, respectful and calm; neither it nor the words sounded like those of a hit man.
‘Tell me who you are and what you want.’ Her voice sounded confident, although she didn’t feel that way. ‘The police are on their way.’ That sounded brave. The police had to come from Barnstaple. It could be twenty minutes, and that was if there was a patrol car free. ‘Come to the side window where I can see you.’
She heard footsteps cross the patio, and a face squashed up against the window. The man wore jeans and a dark jumper. She didn’t recognize him, but he was smiling.
‘Madam, please let me in.’
It was Magnus. Out of uniform, but definitely Richard’s butler. She wasn’t sure of a butler’s job specifications but was pretty sure that it would not include duffing people up who upset Richard. ‘Please,’ said Magnus.
Clare grabbed Stop-it’s collar and opened the door a crack. Her hand felt like it was being torn off her arm. The dog was still growling. She wasn’t in a hurry to shut him up. ‘Just say what you’ve been told to come and say, then leave me alone.’
He looked puzzled. ‘Please, can I come in? I’ve only got half an hour, any longer and Mr Hastings might miss me.’
Her brow wrinkled. ‘He doesn’t know you’re here?’
‘No, but I have something to say which may help you.’ His eyes fell on Stop-it. ‘Do you mind doing something with that dog? He’s making me somewhat nervous.’
With his feet scrabbling in protest, Clare dragged Stop-it up to her bedroom, threw a chew on the floor, closed the door and rushed back downstairs. Magnus was standing where she’d left him. She picked up her abandoned mug of tea and ushered him into the sitting room. ‘Would you like ...?’ She offered, indicating the mug.
He was still standing, and it occurred to Clare he wouldn’t sit without being invited. ‘Please, take a seat,’ she said, getting up and removing a ball and a frayed rope from an armchair, then shaking the covering throw in the air, dispersing a cloud of white dog hairs.
‘I’m all ears.’
‘I’ve worked for Mr Hastings for nearly ten years. It was a tough decision to come here tonight, and if he finds out, it might cost me my job.’
She was aware of the sort of confidentiality clause likely to be in Magnus’s employment contract. She’d drafted plenty herself. Discussing anything that went on at Brambleton Hall would constitute gross misconduct and enable Richard to fire him. And the chance of Magnus finding alternative employment was slim – people who hired private staff were unforgiving of breaches of confidence. Telling herself not to spook him, she gave a slow, encouraging nod.
An eerie high-pitched scream sounded. Clare jumped. Magnus shuddered. Quiet fell, and he swallowed twice, as if summoning his courage. ‘It was a fox,’ she said reassuringly.
A wailing police siren shattered the quiet. Magnus opened his mouth to speak. The siren got louder, and then Clare heard tyres screeching and her front gate slammed against the brickwork. Captain Hilts was squawking and upstairs Stop-it was barking.
Magnus stood, his eyes popping wide.
‘Oh shit!’ said Clare. ‘Anna . . . the police . . .’
Magnus was staring at her, his body trembling.
Fists pounded on the back door. ‘Police, open up!’ shouted a female voice.
Magnus wrung his hands. His eyes were darting round the room as if looking for somewhere to hide. ‘I can’t be seen here. Please, help me.’
‘Coming,’ she shouted out to the kitchen. She shot upright. ‘That way,’ she hissed, pointing at the stairs. Magnus ran up the stairs in the flat-footed way that she recalled from the site inspection. She hurtled up after him, following his heavy footsteps. ‘In there,’ she directed, pointing at her bedroom. Hearing Stop-it’s delighted squeals, she scrambled downstairs, hoping Magnus would cope with the dog.
In the kitchen, she took a breath, then opened the door. Outside was a crowd. There were two policewomen, Anna, Roger, Ivy and Fred.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I was just ...’
‘Thank goodness you’re okay,’ said Roger.
‘Madam, we’ve had reports of an intruder,’ said one of the policewomen.
‘Ah yes,’ she mumbled. What was she going to do? What if the police offered to search the house and discovered Magnus? ‘May we come in?’ asked a policewoman.
Clare opened the door, and the crowd spilled into her kitchen.
‘What happened?’ asked Anna, in a breathless rush. ‘Who was it? Did you see them?’
Clare envisaged Magnus trapped upstairs with the dog.
‘Would you like us to search, make sure no one’s inside?’ said Roger.
‘Outside. He was outside,’ said Clare.
‘Did you see him?’ asked Roger. ‘Could you give a description? Did he threaten you in any way, try to force his way in?’
‘I’m fine. I think I overacted. Panicked. A bit of Londonitus.’ She gave a short laugh.
‘But there was someone at your back door? Were they trying to force it? Do you want us to record this?’ asked an officer.
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘Thanks for coming out, but I’m fine.’
‘Well, we’re stopping here with you,’ said Anna, taking hold of Roger’s hand.
‘And me,’ said Ivy.
‘Sounds like a party,’ said Fred, opening Clare’s fridge.
Clare had a sinking feeling. She wouldn’t expect Magnus to open up in front of an audience. Somehow, she had to smuggle him out without her friends seeing. Any moment now, Tricky Ricky would ring a bell summoning his evening decanter of port.
As soon as the officers left, Clare opened a bottle of wine, plonked five glasses and several bags of crisps on the kitchen table, then excused herself. ‘Help yourself. I’ll be right back.’
Walking up the stairs, she heard a strange squeaking noise. She opened her bedroom door. A peculiar version of a push-me-pull-you stood on her bed. Magnus was at one end, Stop-it formed the other, and the middle was a pillow. Magnus moved, the bed squeaked, Stop-it tugged backwards.
‘He’s terrifically strong, isn’t he!’ said Magnus.
‘It’s a game. Everything is a game to this dog,’ said Clare. ‘I’m desperate to hear what you’ve got to say, but sadly I’ve got an impromptu party downstairs. I’ll take the dog with me, shut us all in the kitchen. I suggest you sneak out the front door. You should get home before you’re missed.’
‘Right.’ He said, dropping the pillow. Stop-it bounced off the bed clutching the prize.
Magnus clambered off and turned to straighten the linen.
‘Leave it, please,’ mumbled Clare.
‘I must speak to you. What about tomorrow evening?’ Magnus suggested.
They arranged to meet the following night in the upstairs section of the local supermarket. Clare thought it was an odd spot for a rendezvous but had to admit that Magnus was unlikely to be seen there by anyone who knew him.
Using a pillow as bait, she coaxed Stop-it out of the room. In the kitchen Roger and Anna were sitting at the table. Fred and Ivy were at opposite ends of the sofa, a metal bowl of crisps between them. Stop-it leapt up. Fred picked up the bowl, lifting it above his head muttering, ‘No you don’t. Not for you.’
Anna passed Clare a glass of wine, then took a gulp from her own before asking, ‘Who was it? You clearly didn’t want to tell the police, but there was genuine fear in your voice when you called me. Was it Richard?’
Clare sipped her wine and mumbled that she couldn’t say.
Ivy craned her head around. ‘Even to us?’
‘It’s nothing for you to worry about. Someone came to visit, and I wasn’t expecting them.’
‘And that’s all you’re going to tell us?’ said Anna.
Clare nodded. The room fell silent, but it wasn’t a comfortable silence. Clare sensed her friends were upset she wouldn’t confide. She had cried help, and everyone had rushed to her rescue and instead of being grateful, she wouldn’t share what the threat was.
Suddenly, Stop-it barked, leapt off the sofa and shot off to the door.
Fred shouted, ‘Let him out. He’ll catch the sod.’
Picturing Stop-it’s jaws clamping onto Magnus’s leg as he scurried to the front door, Clare held up her hands. ‘Enough. I’m very grateful for your concern, but this is my problem.’
‘We’re a team,’ said Fred, ‘and your friends,’ he added, shaking his shock of white hair. ‘Your problems are ours. What’s going on?’
She wasn’t used to people helping her, instead of her helping them. These four people had fixed her shower, paid for her Wi-Fi and even mended the kitchen floor tiles. No one had done anything like that for her in London. ‘Okay guys, here’s my real problem,’ said Clare. She opened a drawer and pulled out the latest letter from Richard’s lawyers with the offending leaflet. Speaking to Sally, they had unearthed an escape route: find the person responsible for giving Hastings the leaflet and get them to confirm Clare’s instructions to destroy it. That might make her offer of a public apology more attractive. At the very least, it would limit his compensation claim to a manageable number. She didn’t show the legal letter to her friends. She couldn’t. Clare would not humiliate herself by admitting the mess she was in.
She passed the leaflet to Anna.
Anna’s brow furrowed. ‘It’s quite strong, isn’t it? I never saw your first draft; I didn’t realize it was so rude.’
That puzzled Clare, making her question Anna’s innocence. Why pretend this was the first time she had seen the leaflet?
‘What is it?’ asked Fred. Anna tossed the leaflet onto the sofa and Fred and Ivy read it together before casting it aside. Roger got up and grabbed the page, his eyes bulging as he read. ‘Wow, no wonder the village sprang up to support you. Quite punchy, Clare.’
‘Did one of you gave this to Richard?’
Everyone wore a vacant expression. Or did they? Clare peered at Ivy, asking herself if her mother’s best friend had just blushed. Surely it couldn’t be Ivy. That wasn’t ethical.
The following night, Clare was standing on the travelator in the supermarket listening to its repeated warnings to push the trolley off the end of the conveyor belt. If only someone had warned her to push off instead of taking Tricky Ricky on.
Alighting at the top, Clare scanned the aisles. She wasn’t expecting to learn anything useful, but Magnus was risking his job to meet her. The least she could do was turn up. It took her ten minutes to find Richard’s butler. On her first circuit, she assumed he was late; on her second, she thought something had prevented him from coming – he had no way of contacting her. She was doing a final scan when she spotted him, crouched down, hiding at the end of the ‘sales’ section. She laughed inwardly – there was no chance of designer-clad Cora browsing the supermarket sales aisles like Clare did.
The café was close by, and she suggested they sit down. He shook his head. ‘So, what’s this about?’ asked Clare.
‘I’ve been trying to contact you. I need to advise you about something.’
‘Was it you that night by my gate, and in the blue car?’
Magnus admitted that he’d tried to speak to her several times before, but every time he’d got close he caught fright. What did he want to tell her?
‘I need to advise you; Mr Hastings is very cross about a leaflet that’s circulating in the village.’
She held up a hand. ‘I know all about it. It’s a bit of a mix-up. I didn’t distribute the offensive one. I circulated a much tamer one, but ...’ she tailed off, realizing there was no point explaining this to Magnus.
‘It was the night you came for dinner. He was thrilled. When I cleared the port glasses, I heard him boasting to two of his friends that he’d set you up for a fall.’
Magnus was watching her, looking pleased with himself. She didn’t want to tell him he’d risked so much to tell her something she couldn’t use. How had someone as lovely as Magnus ended up working for someone as ghastly as Richard? ‘I should have known he was up to no good. Thanks for alerting me. The thing is, all of his guests witnessed me admit that I wrote the leaflet. No one is going to support my side of the story.’
‘Mr Hastings Junior will.’
The mention of his name conjured up a picture of them together in his car before she’d ruined things. She shook her head. Sam was in on the scam too. ‘No, he won’t.’
‘He will. You can trust him.’
‘I can’t trust Sam,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He’s Richard’s brother. The two are in this together.’
Magnus spluttered. ‘No, you’re wrong. They try and keep it hidden, and Mrs Hastings does her best to keep things smooth, but Mr Hastings loathes his younger brother for splitting up the estate. That cider farm used to be part of the estate, and when his father left it to Sam, Mr Hastings tried to dissuade him from taking it. He’s never forgiven his brother for not agreeing. Says it deprives the estate of crucial income.’
Despite the earnest expression on Magnus’s face, Clare wasn’t convinced. It would be great to think she could trust Sam, but it didn’t ring true. Why would Magnus be privy to such an intimate family secret? Had the Hastings brothers sent him to persuade her to trust Sam? Why? What more did Richard want from her?
Driving back from her meeting with Magnus, Clare challenged herself to work out if she’d learned anything useful. Even if she could trust Sam, it didn’t help. He was unlikely to tell her who had given the offensive leaflet to his brother. But what Magnus had done was give her an excuse to call on Sam. She drove to his farm but stopped at the gate, wondering if the dashing divorcee was alone.
Clare pulled up in front of the kitchen. There was a light on. Evidently Sam was comfortable entertaining in there. Before she got out of the Land Rover the front door opened. Sam. For a few moments, she watched him from the safety of the car.
He walked towards her, moving his long legs as elegantly as a dancer. It would be much easier to cast him as a villain like his brother if he, too, had a florid face and a paunch. He was reaching for her door handle when she realized that if Sam was part of the entrapment party, he would know about the Magnus meeting. If he wasn’t, then the butler must be telling the truth, and she could trust this man.
The door opened. Sam smiled and Clare felt her face flush.
‘Hello.’ Her voice sounded high-pitched, and she tried to get control of it. ‘I’ve just come from the strangest meeting,’ she said.
He held her door wide. ‘Come in and tell me about it. Glass of cider? Wine?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m driving.’
He led the way to the kitchen, flicked the kettle on, then offered her a cup of tea. ‘I’ve a decent selection of herbals.’
Yes, he would have with his coterie of women friends , thought Clare. He crossed to a shelf, reading out the options.
‘You choose,’ she said.
‘So, tell me about this meeting. Who was there?’
She waited until she could see his eyes before saying, ‘Magnus.’
‘Ah,’ said Sam, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. The news didn’t surprise him. ‘And what did he have to say?’ he asked.
She told him about the leaflets. The one she’d circulated and the rude version she’d deleted, all the while assessing his reaction to her story. She was pretty sure she wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. He passed her a mug, the tag of the tea bag secured around the handle. ‘Richard played you like a fiddle that evening. I tried my best to stop you, but you wouldn’t listen.’
She took the mug from him and, trying to control the tone of her voice, muttered ‘Why did you walk me into the trap?’
‘You walked yourself in. I took you because you wanted a meeting with Richard. You’re the one that had to take credit for writing the leaflet.’
She eyed him over the rim of her mug. ‘Did Richard break into my house and steal it?’ He shook his head. ‘How can you be so sure?’ she asked.
‘He didn’t have to. Someone sent it to him ... and I know who.’