Chapter 4

The twins don’t cast a backwards glance as they head off with their new class teacher, but I’m still more than ten minutes late for the interview with Mr Lyle of Lovett and Lyle Solicitors. I tear down the long, wide bend of the village main street, past traditional family businesses tucked into buildings packed cheek by jowl, roofs higgledy-piggledy jostling for light and space. The post office window is plastered with small ads and faded posters for National Savings, a cafe has a Wi-Fi sticker curling off the glass. Several people openly stare at me, my heels clickety-clack on the narrow pavement. I’ve no idea where the solicitor’s office is, my eyes search both sides of the narrow street, a prickle of sweat starts beneath my fitted blouse.

‘Mrs Keeling, good morning!’

The booming voice makes me jump, but I recognise it before the tweed suit comes into view. A puffing Mr Whittle smiles and waves a rolled-up sheaf of sales particulars to catch my attention as he jogs down steep steps outside an adjacent building. I stop and wait for him to reach me.

‘How have you settled into Haverscroft?’

‘Just fine, thanks. Packing boxes everywhere, but we’re getting there, I think.’

‘No problems at all?’ He peers closely at me, lowers the glasses perched on the front of his bald head and studies my face.

‘Problems? None we didn’t expect from the ancient heating and electrics. They’re all a bit temperamental, as you know.’

‘Good, good!’ He stands back and shoves the glasses back to his forehead. ‘It takes a while to get the feel of a big old place. How’s Mrs Cooper? I mean, is she coming in for you? She did for old Mrs Havers and a little bit here and there when the place was empty, you know.’

He taps the roll of particulars on the palm of his hand and seems a little nervous stepping from one foot to the other. Perhaps it’s me. Colour rushes to my cheeks at the recollection of the first day we met: me, mute on Haverscroft’s weed-strewn drive; Mr Whittle gazing down from the top step, the front door wide open at his back. Mark coaxed me inside, but I’d barely managed to string two words together all afternoon. He’s dealt with Mark ever since.

‘She’s at the house today, as a matter of fact. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m terribly late for an appointment.’

‘Of course! Your meeting with Oliver Lyle’s this morning, is it?’

The surprise he knows must show on my face. He catches my expression and smiles, extends his hand towards the building he just came from. Lovett and Lyle Solicitors has a gleaming brass knob, knocker and plate fixed to a glossy black door.

‘I’ve known Oliver for years. He’s been needing help with wills ever since Miss Dyer retired. Must be over a year ago now.’

He dashes to the door and holds it open for me.

‘Let me know what old Mrs Havers has stashed away in those attic rooms, won’t you now!’ His eyes shine with mischief as he beams at me. ‘Poor old girl. Alzheimer’s, you know. She really didn’t want to sell up, but with the cost of care-home fees these days.’ He shakes his head. ‘Be warned, Oliver can be a crotchety old bugger at times. I’ll wish you good luck!’

 

‘Come in, Mrs Keeling, come in! It is Mrs Keeling?’

‘Yes,’ I say, unsure how to respond to the man opening an enormous pile of post at reception. A woman sits at the desk answering incoming calls. He stops slitting envelopes long enough to extend his hand. I shake it, cool and bony, fingernails digging into my skin.

‘Oliver Lyle.’

The whole of him is pencil-thin and angular, grey suit hanging with excess fabric about shoulders and knees. The top of his domed head is balding, dark grey eyes sharp beneath greying bushy eyebrows. A thin man grown thinner, shrunken in on himself as the years advanced.

‘How are you finding Haverscroft?’

Today’s hot topic of conversation.

‘Fine, thank you. Still unpacking.’

I try to place a relaxed smile on my face, but it feels stiff, like cold plastic, I doubt very much it fools the solicitor into thinking I feel calm and confident. I had no time to collect myself after Mr Whittle ushered me in. The solicitor stares at me. Does he expect me to speak? I swallow, try to squash the panic down.

‘I’ve called Haverscroft several times this morning. I must have missed you.’

‘Oh?’

‘There’s been a bit of a mix-up. Lovett, my partner, misunderstood what I’m needing in terms of help here. I’m sorry, but we’re wasting your time today.’

I hardly know what to say. I have no qualifications or experience with wills, probate or trusts, but assumed I’d learn on the job. My CV makes it clear how my career has run so far.

‘With your background, I’m sure you’ll be better placed in Ipswich, Colchester, or Cambridge perhaps.’ He smiles, the expression as cold as his skin.

‘But we do have these ready for you.’ He reaches across to a shelf behind the young woman and picks up a thick brown envelope. ‘Pre-registration deeds for Haverscroft. I’m not sure what good they are to you, but Whittle tells me you require them.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the envelope. It’s quite heavy with thick black writing across the front: For Collection.

‘I’m intending to research the history of the house: who built it, who’s lived there and when.’

Again, the man stares. The woman is off the phone, I feel her eyes on my face. My face that has grown hot, and is getting hotter.

‘I should’ve made more progress before we moved. We’ve no internet at present, so I can’t do much, not without the internet . . .’

Nervous gabbling, he isn’t interested in hearing this. I stop. Shut up.

‘Will you visit her, Mrs Havers, I mean?’

‘Should I?’ This conversation is going places I don’t understand. Why would I visit a woman I’ve never met just because we bought her house?

‘We wondered if you’d keep that part of the bargain. An odd term and quite unenforceable, as you’ll be aware. I’d caution you against visiting if you’re considering it. She’s unwell and has been for some time; she’s not in her right mind. Whittle’s had a torrid time dealing with her, as I’m sure he’ll confirm. I understand you have agreed to keep on her domestic and gardener though.’

He scrutinises my features as he speaks, his grey eyes dart about my face. I can’t think with him looking at me all the time. My mouth is dry, my chest tightening. These must be things Mark’s dealt with. More stuff he’s held back so as not to worry me.

‘There’s a second letter in there, I’m afraid, along with the attic keys.’ He’s looking at the envelope I’m holding. No wonder it has some weight to it.

‘Second letter?’

‘In addition to the one Mrs Havers sent you and your husband during the summer. Rather prolific, her correspondence, I’m afraid. We’re merely obliged to pass these things on, you understand; nothing to do with this firm.’

‘I don’t know about any letter.’

I need to get out of here, get some air. I don’t remember any letter from Mrs Havers.

‘I hope it didn’t trouble you? She sent letters to all prospective buyers. Some of them were quite nasty, so Lovett tells me.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Lyle, I’ve never received any letters from Mrs Havers.’

‘I really wouldn’t trouble yourself about it. Whatever nonsense she was peddling is hardly relevant, not now you’ve moved into the house.’