Cherringham--The Secret of Brimley Manor Page 8

  “Digby — as Jack would say — we’ve hit pay dirt!”

  12. History Lessons

  “So what do you reckon, Clifford? About the fire … you think it was an accident?”

  “Ah well, now you’re asking a tricky question, Jack. Might be. Might not be. I’m no expert.”

  “You must have an opinion though?”

  “Oh, right. I’ve thought about what happened, for sure. Question is though, cui bono?”

  Jack — having done three years of Latin at Brooklyn Prep — grinned.

  “Who benefits? Exactly,” said Jack, smiling again at the unexpected use of the Latin by the gardener.

  Then again, as well as the crosswords, Clifford was probably using Latin all day long, tending to all those amazing plants …

  “See, none of us who works at the manor wins if the place burns down. You understand? We’d all be out of a job. So Ben, Sophie, Charlie — can’t be one of them three, can it? Wouldn’t make any sense.”

  “What about fire insurance?” said Jack. “Conservation Trust would make a pretty penny if the house just burned down, hmm?”

  “Well, from my understanding, Trust don’t want insurance. In fact — they want the place tarted up fast so it starts earning them some cash.”

  “Small, contained fire though — structure stays intact — could be worth it? Timed to when Charlie would spot it?”

  “More fuss than it’s worth, Jack, don’t you think? Risky move. And certainly not part of the plans.”

  “So it’s true they’re going to spend big on the house?”

  “Budgets willing. That’s what I’ve heard.”

  Jack reached down, took a swig of beer.

  “What about Mr Brimley?”

  “Perry? Hah! Meet him, did you? What’s he got to do with it, you’re wondering?”

  “He’s been trying to get the estate back for years, he said. Maybe he got fed up — decided — to hell with the Trust, I’ll burn the place down.”

  Jack watched Clifford consider this.

  Then a head shake.

  “Find that hard to believe,” said Clifford, eventually. “He loves that house. Grew up in it.”

  “But you’re not sure — are you?”

  “Ask me that question a year ago, I would have said — no way.”

  “But now?”

  “Well … can’t quite believe I’m saying this,” said Clifford, taking a sip of beer, “but recently, I’m not sure how well I do know him anymore. Always been odd … but lately …”

  “My colleague Sarah and I went to see him earlier. Seemed a tad … on edge.”

  Clifford nodded: “I think the Trust’s plans have disturbed him. You know? The thought of the house, lost to him forever. Change, I suppose — always difficult to deal with.”

  “So, he could have done it? Set fire to the place?”

  Again, Jack saw Clifford pause, as if not wanting to admit the possible.

  “He’s certainly been a bit more … erratic … lately.”

  “How so?”

  “Well … okay. He never used to go anywhere near the house. Wouldn’t even look at it. But these last few weeks — working late a couple of times — I’ve seen him on the grounds.”

  “Walking around?”

  “No, not really. More like lurking. I suppose that’s the word you’d have to use. Like he was watching for something?”

  “In the house too? He got access?”

  “Not that I know. But he grew up in the manor. Knows the place like the back of his hand, that’s for sure.”

  Jack took this in. Maybe he’d been right to be worried about Sarah.

  “Clifford, how well do you know him?”

  “Seen him grow up, I have. Perry were just a nipper when I started work at the manor. Sweet kid he was, back then. Interested in everything. Loved the plants — loved them.”

  Jack did some quick calculations: “Hang on — so you’ve been at the manor — what, fifty years?”

  “Yup. Fourteen years old I was when I started. Helping out the under-gardener. Lowest of the low.”

  “So was the grandfather — Horatio Brimley — still alive then?”

  “Oh God, yes. The old coot. Getting on a bit, mind, but still sharp as a razor. Fact, it was him who mostly brought up Perry.”

  “Perry’s parents …?”

  “Died in a car crash, both of ’em. When Perry was just a kid. So, him and Grandpa Horatio, peas in a pod they were.”

  Jack nodded at Clifford’s empty glass.

  “Get you another?” he said.

  “Don’t mind if I do. Expect you’ve got a few more questions, hmm?”

  Jack laughed. “You expect right. Same again?”

  “Same again. Little whisky chaser might go well with it — what do you think? Trust paying and all?”

  “I think that’s a very good idea,” said Jack, turning and heading for the bar.

  Whatever Sarah’s finding online — this little history lesson is well worth the price of a couple of rounds.

  *

  Sarah sat back and reached for her cup of tea.

  Cold.

  No wonder. That first link to Ben Davis had opened up a treasure trove of information. She’d made pages of notes. And now she flicked back through them. So much to tell Jack.

  Ben was no uneducated labourer.

  Anything but …

  A star pupil from a poor family in Brixton, he’d been spotted by a charity, given a scholarship to a good school — and won a place at Cambridge to read history, followed by a PhD at SOAS in London.

  Specialising in the economic foundations of the slave trade — and, in particular, the role of English landowners in opposing Abolition.

  Online — his writing was everywhere. Articles. Tweets. Blogs. Video. Conference speeches. His specialty: unearthing the hidden backgrounds, the secret sources of wealth, of a string of English country estates.

  And then demanding reparations — or at least an open acknowledgement and an apology — for the inhuman and savage trade from which they’d profited.

  It absolutely couldn’t be a coincidence that Ben was now here at Brimley Manor.

  Ben was a firebrand; passionate — that wasn’t just going to disappear while he tended the plants.

  There had to be a connection somewhere between the Brimleys and the slave trade. But, so far, her research had only uncovered that the Brimley family were merchants.

  What if the Brimleys’ wealth came from slavery — then was that the reason why Ben had so “luckily” turned up in the summer?

  Was that why he’d stayed? To research the family himself? Uncover the Brimley secret history?

  Or was it more than research?

  And now Sarah, despite the evening’s warmth, felt a chill.

  Was it possible that Ben had started the fire? Had he moved on from accusations … to direct action?

  That made Ben Davis the prime suspect.

  She went to the kitchen to make another pot of tea.

  It was going to be a long night.

  13. The Best Laid Plans

  Jack stood up from his crouch, and stretched. Beautiful morning, if it weren’t for the fact that his MGA was having “issues”.

  The car’s ancient manual was open at a page devoted to how the 1600 Mark II engine actually worked. Not all that different from his Sprite … but different enough.

  He always felt that if he was going to own a classic like this, then he should learn how to maintain it — at least the basics.

  Though, besides having a vague suspicion that it had something to do with the carburettor, he was — delightful morning and all — stumped.

  He was due to meet Sarah at the Cherringham Village Records office when it opened at ten sharp.

  He took out his phone and texted: “Car problems. Okay taking a look on your own? Pick you up as soon as sorted?”

  He knew that today there was something really important for them to do: to go back to
the mad house, and — now after his chat with Clifford — figure out why everyone was lying.

  And, more importantly, what was inside that locked room in the creaky attic?

  A text came firing back quickly: “No worries. Office not open yet. Will wait, then go check.”

  Jack back: “Great. See you in a bit.”

  Then another text pinged back: “Got some interesting news about our friend Ben btw …”

  Jack sent her a “thumbs-up” back, then put his phone away.

  So maybe Ben was back in the frame?

  Would be a shame. In spite of the attitude, he’d liked the kid straight away.

  Then, with his dog Riley looking on, interested, as if he might have a suggestion or two, Jack started thumbing through the pages of the car’s manual.

  A fifty-year-old sports car.

  Guess he knew going in that the MGA would require a lot of TLC.

  And Jack went back to studying the engine schematic.

  *

  Sarah stood in the corridor of the first floor of the village hall.

  Besides leading to the main room that served for every kind of amateur theatrical the locals could dream of, there was were also a scattering of offices here.

  None seemed open.

  She looked at her watch. 10:10. Still no sign of the person due to open this office devoted to the village records.

  Do I have the opening times … days wrong? Sarah wondered.

  And she was about to do a quick search on her phone when she heard someone coming up the steps.

  She turned to see a round woman, one hand firmly grasping the handrail as she made her way up. Beside her, a waddling bulldog, equally round and also struggling up the steps.

  “Come, come, Winnie. Almost there, boy.”

  The woman had not seen Sarah standing, obviously waiting, watching the Everest-like climb.

  Until she reached the top.

  And both she and the bulldog — whose tummy seemed to scrape the floor, the legs were that short — came to a dead stop. The woman breathing deeply.

  “Hell-lo. You waiting for something?”

  Sarah nodded, and surmised that this floor, this office of paper records — in the age of digital — did not get many visitors.

  “Yes. Good morning.” Sarah extended her hand. “Sarah Edwards, and I—”

  The woman’s face — which had seemed stony, suspicious, “loose lips” and all that — cracked into a broad smile.

  “Michael and Helen’s girl?”

  Sarah nodded. In Cherringham, having someone you are connected to — well-known, beloved even — was about the biggest door-opener ever.

  And that is exactly what the woman did, withdrawing from her handbag a curiously large ring of keys, and fishing out an old-fashioned skeleton key that she used to pop open the door, with its opaque, bevelled glass window and the black lettering, Cherringham Village Records.

  Sarah followed her — and Winnie — into the office.

  Once across the threshold, Sarah watched the dog retreat to a corner where a wicker basket with a Winnie-sized pillow showed signs of a daily life spent sitting exactly there.

  “Now, Sarah Edwards. My, my — you have grown!”

  Sarah kept smiling. There was something to be said for the anonymity of the big city. No one knows you, and no one cares.

  Not here!

  As the woman went behind a desk nearly tall enough to make her disappear, Sarah noticed a plastic name plaque looking like an artefact from the Forties.

  Vivian Fortnum — Village Records Secretary.

  “Ah, yes. Um, I was wondering, hoping that I might find something here?”

  Behind the woman, Sarah noticed wooden tables, some with books stacked, and to the side, doors leading to rooms — Sarah guessed — where the actual records were kept.

  “Ms Fortnum—”

  “Oh Viv. That’s what everyone calls me. Ha — when they do call me.”

  “Viv, I’m looking for a record, house plans from over 180 years ago, and there is no digital version, based on my searches, and—”

  “Digital! Searches! That’s what it’s all come to, hasn’t it? Nothing real. No one looks for anything, now do they? They ‘search’.”

  Sarah nodded. It made sense that the keeper of ancient paper records here would look disdainfully on the impact of the internet age.

  “What I’m looking for — those plans — I’m trying to help the Conservation Trust. You see, it’s—”

  But at that first attempt at a request, “Viv” shot a hand up.

  “Um, sorry, Sarah. You see, the procedure here is that you fill out a form for the requested document. I then check our filing system … see that behemoth in the back? We have a file card for absolutely every item. Then, I shall — if you’re lucky! — retrieve it for you.”

  Sarah was hoping this might be a speedier process.

  But with Jack delayed, she had no worries filling out a form.

  With luck, they might get back to Brimley Manor by midday.

  And, she had to admit, the prospect of doing that, with so many deceptions flying around … was quite exciting.

  Viv produced a faded sheet of paper.

  Even the form’s typography spoke of another era. And the detail it required! Full name, address, reason for request, time and date, year that the requested document had been created …

  There were bank loan applications that required less.

  She took a pen … chained to the high desk by a metal strand lest some ne’er-do-well might consider running off with it.

  She started filling the document out.

  *

  Jack looked at the engine. Okay. Not a carburettor issue. Not the original, so not fifty years old. But, still, it had obviously seen some use.

  And a thorough cleaning might have done the trick. The Mark II engine could be fussy. He didn’t shut the hood. A look down to his mesmerised dog.

  Might have to go in there again, hmm, Riley?

  He slipped behind the wheel. Keys already in the ignition.

  He made what he thought was a typical car owner’s prayer when faced with a reluctant vehicle, namely: Please start.

  A turn of the key — and there it was. The engine, roaring beautifully back to life.

  Even Riley took notice, standing up at the throaty rumble of the MGA.

  “There we go, boy. Not too … challenging.”

  Jack carefully pulled down the hood gently and heard it latch with a satisfying click.

  TLC. Even when just doing something like that.

  And then back into the driver’s seat to catch up with Sarah.

  *

  Viv had taken Sarah’s form and disappeared back to what she called “the behemoth”, the massive mountain of wooden drawers that held tray after tray of records, all on file cards.

  She saw that the barely five-foot woman had, at her disposal, a number of different-sized stools and folding stepladders.

  Right now, she was perched on one stool a foot off the ground, two trays open, as she looked in one, then the other.

  Shaking her head.

  And then — a nod — and she stepped down, and walked back to Sarah, holding a file card like a trophy.

  Which Sarah saw was actually a pair of cards.

  “Here you go. Took some checking … the year a little off. Still, got it.”

  “Fantastic. Great news.”

  At that, the records secretary’s face fell. “Oh, sorry, not your plans. You see this card, well — I should have remembered. It shows that those plans were taken away by the heir to the property. Perfectly within his rights after all these years. Still, most people have absolutely no use for them.”

  “You mean—?“

  “Yes. Not here, I am afraid. You will have to follow up with the heir, a—” Viv pushed up her glasses, which somehow made her read the information more easily, “Mr Peregrine Brimley? He has them. Sorry.”

  Disappointing indeed. Bu
t curious. Why would Peregrine want the plans?

  Sarah’s phone vibrated. In the sanctuary of all things paper, Sarah felt almost guilty taking out her phone under Viv’s gaze.

  Greeted with the slightest moue of displeasure.

  “Yeah, Jack. Great. But not great news here, I’m afraid. Yes, well, interesting. Be right down. See you when you get here. Bye.”

  Sarah killed the call and slid the offending phone away.

  “One more thing. Can you tell me how long ago they were removed?”

  Viv looked as if she didn’t trust Sarah as much, having pulled a demon device from the side pocket of her jeans.

  But even at that, the woman took another look at the card.

  “Over three years ago.”

  Sarah nodded. And for a moment she looked around this quirky out-of-time office.

  Cherringham … always seemingly able to conjure up the most surprising spaces.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  And as Sarah turned to walk away, she saw Winnie watching her. With quiet about to be restored to the sleepy office, the dog could again go about the business of shutting its eyes.

  But, after only few steps, Viv called out.

  “Oh, Sarah. One more thing. Almost didn’t see it. Again, I should have remembered. Age, you know.”

  Sarah turned.

  “Someone else came looking for those plans.”

  Sarah stopped.

  Another step and she would have been out the door …

  “Do you know when … who it was …?

  “Sorry, If the document is not found, the request form is, as they say these days, recycled. We just note on the card that someone made a request.”

  Sarah nodded. Interesting, but not terribly helpful.

  But then Viv looked away.

  “But I think — can’t be sure … memory, you know — it was this summer. A woman. Quite young. I assumed with the Trust perhaps? Anyway, she left empty-handed, like yourself.”

  Sarah nodded. Of course, the Trust would have sent someone down to get the plans if they were planning major renovations.

  But then …

  Odd thought: why didn’t Guy Gibbons tell her that he knew Brimley had the plans?

  Unless …

  Ah, it was the ’unless’ questions best discussed with Jack.