“Mine too.” Mrs. Bloxby smiled. “Alf writes a great sermon and is very good at organising church functions, but I do quite a bit of what you might call pastoral care.”
“Does that generally involve sherry and a chat?”
“You’re different,” said Mrs. Bloxby, refilling their glasses. “And thank heavens for that. Sir Charles Fraith would be lost without you, and one day I’m sure he will have cause to be grateful that you were there for him—that you never gave up.”
“I never will,” Agatha agreed, and they clinked glasses again. “I never give up.”
* * *
Had Agatha harboured any lingering doubts about helping Charles to deal with his new wife and in-laws, they evaporated early the following afternoon. She had slept late and was showered, dressed and enjoying a cup of coffee in her kitchen, browsing the Sunday papers, when the doorbell rang. She made her way along the narrow hall to the front door, congratulating herself on having done her hair and applied make-up at leisure prior to having a visitor, whoever it might be. To her surprise, she found Mary standing on the doorstep. She was wearing a casual sweater, jeans and the kind of boots that country ladies keep for walking Labradors.
“Well, well,” said Agatha, crossing her arms and leaning on the doorpost to make it clear that her visitor would not be invited inside. “The blushing bride. Shouldn’t you be on honeymoon or something?”
“All in good time,” Mary replied, looking up at Agatha. There was only one step up to the front door of the cottage, but Agatha was enjoying having the strategic advantage of looking down on Mary from the higher ground. “We fly out tomorrow to spend some time at our property in Spain,” Mary continued, “before taking a short cruise on a rather exclusive liner. I wanted some time after the wedding to clear up a few loose ends.”
“I’m not sure I like being called a loose end.”
“I don’t care what you like!” growled Mary. “I’m here to tell you to keep your nose out of my business. I saw you yesterday.”
“I saw that you saw me yesterday.”
“And the security guard told me what you were up to in the woods—with him!” Mary pointed to her right, where James was sitting on a wooden bench by his front door, enjoying the sunshine, a cup of tea and a book.
“Afternoon, James,” called Agatha.
“Afternoon, Aggie.”
“You really shouldn’t believe everything you hear from an over-muscled cretin in an ill-fitting suit,” said Agatha, “but I do hope it didn’t entirely spoil your big day, Darlinda.”
“It’s Lady Mary to you!”
“I think not, Your Majesty. I prefer Darlinda, although it’s a shame they didn’t make it Lindarell, isn’t? Your mother’s quite pretty. With her name first, you might have inherited her looks instead of getting that,” she pointed at Mary’s chin, “from your old man.”
“I don’t have to take that sort of talk from you! You’re not fit to scrape the shit off my shoes. I can buy and sell your sort, so tread very carefully, you old cow—and keep your fat arse off my property!”
Agatha blinked. A cold, blank look came over her face.
“Old? Fat?”
She shot out a hand, clutching Mary around the throat. Mary squealed and grabbed two fistfuls of Agatha’s hair. In an instant, James had vaulted the low picket fence between the front gardens and prised the two women apart.
“That’s enough!” he shouted. “Calm down, both of you!”
Neighbours cleaning cars in the street or tidying their flower beds craned their necks to see what was disturbing the peace on their Sunday afternoon.
“Did you see that?” Mary screeched, rubbing her throat and appealing to Agatha’s neighbours. “Did you all see that? She tried to strangle me!”
“Why don’t you bugger off back to Barfield House,” Agatha roared, “before I finish the job?”
She stepped back into her cottage and slammed the door. Mary turned on her heel and stomped off down the garden path. James let out a breath of relief and returned to his bench.
* * *
Sir Charles Fraith sat at his desk in the library of Barfield House. Of all the rooms in the house, and there were many—he had long forgotten exactly how many—this was his favourite. It was his haven, a sanctuary where he could work, think or simply sit and read. One wall of the oak-panelled room was lined with shelves of books, an ornate mahogany wheeled staircase standing ready, as it had done for over a century, to allow access to the highest levels. There were many valuable first editions among the hundreds of books, and many volumes that he treasured. He had read only a fraction of them and doubted he would manage to peruse them all during his lifetime. Some he knew well, especially those pertaining to his Cambridge history degree; others he only discovered when the mood took him to browse the collection.
Opposite the shelves were tall windows that flooded the room with light—although the shafts of direct sunlight stretched across the floor only as far as the base of the bookcases, a deliberate design to protect the spines of the volumes—and a set of French doors leading onto the terrace. In front of his desk, beyond a sofa, a pair of wing-backed chairs and a low coffee table, was a cavernous fireplace with a carved marble surround. A huge gilt-framed mirror stood proudly on the mantelpiece. Behind him the wall was dedicated to portraits of his ancestors, or at least those paintings he liked. When he had inherited the house, some had not been to his taste and were banished to rarely visited rooms or wrapped in blankets in the attic. One of those had been of Cater Thompson, a disturbing portrait that had haunted Charles’s childhood. Thompson was not a direct ancestor but had owned the original Tudor house that had once stood where Barfield now was. That house had burned down, which was hardly surprising given everything that had gone on within its walls. Thompson had been a member of a Hellfire Club and had held black mass ceremonies and ritual orgies in the house.
The portraits that remained all meant something to Charles and he knew the history and achievements of each individual. What, he wondered, shuffling invoices and payment sheets, would be counted among his achievements? Who would look at his likeness and recite his history? Would this room, this house, survive to host his portrait one day? It wasn’t something to which he had ever given much consideration in the past, but now …
The reason for his musing made a sudden appearance, flinging open the library door.
“Have you been through those latest spreadsheets?” Mary demanded.
“I have started looking through them,” Charles replied.
“They don’t make very encouraging reading, do they? Take a look at the five-year projections on … Oh for goodness’ sake! Why do you still not have a computer or even a laptop in here?”
“The computers are in the office.”
“But you spend your time in here! Things are going to change in this house, Charles—get used to it.”
“Things have already changed,” said Charles, running his hand through his hair, “but some of the things you are proposing are entirely impractical.”
“You’re talking about your precious tenants again, aren’t you?”