Fox Evil (5 page)

The same androgynous woman answered again, presumably because she was the figure he was looking at: big and burly in an army-surplus overcoat and with an accent straight from the Essex marshes. "Sorry, mate, but I'm the only one that agrees with you. The rest couldn't give a shit one way or the other. You can't eat foxes, see, so they ain't much good to us. It's different with deer 'coz they're edible, and none of us can see the point of letting dogs 'ave their meat… not when there's humans like us needs it."

Still hoping for saboteurs, Dick allowed himself to be drawn into discussion. "There's no deer hunting with dogs in Dorset. Devon possibly… but not here."

"Sure there is. You think any hunt will pass up the chance of a buck if the hounds get wind of it? It ain't no one's fault if a little Bambi gets killed 'coz the dogs go after the wrong scent. That's life. There ain't nothing you can do about it. Numbers of times we've set traps for somefink to eat, and we end up with a poor little moggy's foot in the workings. You can bet your bottom dollar there's an old lady somewhere, weeping her heart out 'coz Tom never came home… but dead is dead, never mind it ain't what you planned."

Dick shook his head, recognizing that argument was futile. "If you're not prepared to tell me why you're here, then I'll have to call the police. You've no right to trespass on private property."

The remark was greeted with silence.

"All right," said Dick, taking a mobile phone from his pocket, "though be warned, I
will
prosecute if you've caused any damage. I work hard for the environment and I'm sick to death of types like you ruining it for the rest of us."

"Are you saying it's your property, Mr. Weldon?" said the same well-spoken voice that had answered him at the beginning.

For the briefest of moments he had a sense of recognition-it was a voice he knew, but without a face he couldn't put it in context. He searched the line for the speaker. "How do you know my name?"

"We checked the electoral register." This time there was a rougher edge to the vowels, as if the speaker had noticed his sharpened interest and wanted to deflect it.

"That wouldn't help you recognize me."

"R. Weldon, Shenstead Farm. You said you were an arable farmer. How many others are there in the valley?"

"Two tenant farmers."

"P. Squires and G. Drew. Their farms are to the south. If you were one of them you'd have come the other way."

"You're too well informed to have got all that from the electoral register," said Dick, scrolling through his mobile menu for the local police station. His calls usually concerned poachers or burned-out cars in his fields-an increasing nuisance since the government had declared zero tolerance on unlicensed vehicles-which was why he had the number on file. "I recognize your voice, my friend. I can't place it at the moment-" he selected the number and punched the call button, raising the phone to his ear-"but I'm betting this lot will know who you are."

The watching people waited in silence while he spoke to the sergeant at the other end. If any of them smiled as he became increasingly irritated at the advice he was being given, the smiles remained hidden behind their scarves. He turned his back toward them and walked away, making an effort to keep his voice down, but the angry hunching of his shoulders was the best indication they could have that he didn't like what he was hearing.

Six vehicles or less were considered an acceptable size for an encampment, particularly if it was at a distance from neighbors and posed no threat to road safety. The landowner could apply for eviction, but it would take time. The best course was to negotiate the length of stay through the Traveler Liaison Officer at the local authority and avoid unnecessary confrontation with the visitors. The sergeant reminded Dick that farmers had recently been arrested in Lincolnshire and Essex for using threatening behavior against groups who had invaded their land. The police were sympathetic to landowners but their first priority was to avoid anyone getting hurt.

"Godammit!" Dick rasped, cupping his hand across his mouth to muffle the words. "Who wrote these rules? You telling me they can park wherever they fancy, do whatever they like, and if the poor sap who owns the bloody land objects, you bastards'll arrest him? Yeah… yeah… I'm sorry… no offense intended. So what rights do the poor sods who live here have?"

In return for occupying the site, travelers were asked to agree to certain conditions. These concerned appropriate disposal of household and human waste, the proper control of animals, health and safety issues, and agreements not to reoccupy the same site within a period of three months or use threatening or intimidatory behavior.

Dick's ruddy face turned apoplectic. "You call those
rights
?" he hissed. "We're expected to offer house-room to a bunch of crooks and all we get in exchange is a promise that they'll behave in a halfway civilized manner." He shot an angry glance toward the line. "And how do you define threatening and intimidating behavior anyway? There's a dozen of them blocking my way and they're all wearing masks over their faces… not to mention some damn dogs and the 'keep out' notice they've slung across the track. What's that if it's not intimidating?" He hunched his shoulders lower. "Yes, well, that's the problem," he muttered, "no one knows who owns it. It's an acre of woodland on the edge of the village."

He listened for a moment. "
Jesus wept!
Whose side are you on, for Christ's sake?… Yeah, well, it might not be an issue for you but it sodding well is for me. You wouldn't have a job if I didn't pay my taxes."

He snapped the mobile closed and shoved it into his pocket before returning to the Jeep and yanking the door open. A ripple of laughter ran along the line.

"Got a problem, have you, Mr. Weldon?" said the voice in a mocking tone. "Let me guess. The busies have told you to phone the council negotiator."

Dick ignored him and climbed behind the wheel.

"Don't forget to tell her that no one owns this land. She lives in Bridport, and she'll be mighty stroppy if she has to drive all this way on her holiday to learn it from us."

Dick started the engine and turned the Jeep broadside to the line. "Who are you?" he demanded through the open window. "How do you know so much about Shenstead?"

But the question was greeted with silence. Furiously grinding his gears, Dick made a three-point turn and returned home to discover that the negotiator was indeed a woman, did live in Bridport, and refused to give up her holiday to negotiate over a piece of unclaimed land that squatters had as much right to occupy as anyone in the village.

Mr. Weldon should never have mentioned that the land was in dispute. Without that knowledge she could have negotiated a length of stay that would have suited neither party. It would have been too short for the travelers and too long for the villagers. All land in England and Wales was owned by someone, but a failure to register left it open to opportunists.

For whatever reason, Mr. Weldon had volunteered information that suggested solicitors would become involved-
"No, I'm sorry, sir, you were a fool to take advice from the squatters. This is a gray area of law…"
-and there was little she could do until agreement was reached on who owned the land.
Of course
it was unjust.
Of course
it went against every norm of legal fairness.
Of course
she was on the side of the taxpayers.

But…

1 October 2001

Dear Captain Smith,

My solicitor informs me that if I attempt to contact you, you will sue. For that reason I should make it clear that I am writing without Mark Ankerton's knowledge and that the entire responsibility for this letter is mine. Please be assured, too, that any suit you bring will not be contested and I will pay any compensation that a court sees fit to award.

In these circumstances, I am sure you are wondering why I am writing so potentially costly a letter. Call it a gamble, Captain Smith. I am wagering the cost of damages against a one in ten-perhaps even a one in a hundred-chance that you will respond.

Mark has described you as an intelligent, well-balanced, successful, and brave young woman, who feels an absolute loyalty to her parents and has no desire to learn anything about people who are strangers to her. He tells me your family has a long history, and that your ambition is to take over your father's farm when you leave the army. In addition, he says you are a credit to Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and suggests that your adoption was the best thing that could have happened to you.

Please believe there is nothing he could have said that would have given me greater pleasure. My wife and I always hoped that your future was in the hands of good people. Mark has repeated several times that you have no curiosity about your relations, to the extent that you do not wish even to know their names. Should your determination remain as strong, then throw this letter away now and do not read on.

I have always been fond of fables. When my children were small I used to read Aesop to them. They were particularly fond of stories about the Fox and the Lion, for reasons that will become obvious. I am reluctant to put too much information into this letter, for fear of giving you the impression that I care little for your strongly held feelings. To that end, I enclose a variation on an Aesop fable and two newspaper clippings. From what Mark tells me, you will certainly be able to read between the lines of all three and draw some accurate conclusions.

Suffice it to say that my wife and I failed dismally to achieve the same high standard of parenting with our two children as the Smiths achieved with you. It would be easy to lay the blame for this at the door of the army-the absence of a father figure whenever I was away on duty, foreign postings when neither parent was at home, the influences they fell under at boarding school, the lack of supervision during holidays at home-but that would be wrong, I think.

The fault lay with us. We overindulged them to compensate for our absences and interpreted their wild behavior as attention-seeking. We also took the view-shamefully, I fear-that the family name was worth something and rarely, if ever, did we ask them to face up to their mistakes. The greatest loss was you, Nancy. For the worst of reasons-snobbery-we helped our daughter find a "good husband" by keeping her pregnancy secret, and in the process gave away our only grandchild. If I were a religious man, I would say it was a punishment for setting so much store by family honor. We abandoned you rashly to protect our reputation without any understanding of your fine qualities or what the future might hold.

The irony of all this hit me very strongly when Mark told me how unimpressed you were by your Lockyer-Fox connection. In the end, a name is only a name and a family's worth resides in the sum of its parts not in the label they have chosen to attach to themselves. Had I come to this view earlier, I doubt I would be writing this letter. My children would have grown up to be stable members of society, and you would have been welcomed for who you were, not banished for what you were.

I will finish by saying that this is the only letter I shall write. If you don't reply or if you instruct a solicitor to sue, I shall accept that the gamble is lost. I have purposefully not explained my real reason for wanting to meet you, although you may suspect that your status as my only grandchild has something to do with it.

I believe Mark told you that you would be doing a great kindness by agreeing to see me. May I add that you would also be offering the hope of redress to someone who is dead.

Yours sincerely,

James Lockyer-Fox

The Lion, the Elderly Fox,

And the Generous Ass

The Lion, the Fox, and the Ass lived together in intimate friendship for several years until the Lion grew scornful of the Fox's age and derided the Ass for her generosity to strangers. He demanded the respect due his superior might, and insisted her generosity be shown only to him. The Ass, in great trepidation, assembled all her wealth into one large heap and offered it to the Fox for safekeeping until the Lion mended his ways. The Lion burst into a great rage and devoured the Ass. Then he requested the Fox do him the favor of making the division of the Ass's wealth. The elderly Fox, aware that he was no match for the Lion, pointed to the pile and invited the Lion to take it. The Lion, assuming the Fox had learned sense from the death of the Ass, said, "Who has taught you, my very excellent fellow, the art of division? You are perfect to a fraction." The Fox replied, "I learned the value of generosity from my friend, the Ass." Then he raised his voice and called upon the animals of the jungle to put the Lion to flight and share the Ass's fortune among themselves. "In this way," he told the Lion, "you will have nothing and the Ass will be avenged."

But the Lion devoured the Fox and took the Fox's fortune instead.

Lockyer-Fox
-Ailsa Flora, unexpectedly at home on 6 March 2001, aged 78. Dearly loved wife of James, mother of Leo and Elizabeth, and generous friend to many. Funeral service at St. Peter's, Dorchester on Thursday 15 March at 12:30. No flowers please, but donations if desired to Dr. Barnardo's or the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

CORONER'S VERDICT

A coroner's inquest ruled yesterday that Ailsa Lockyer-Fox, 78, of Shenstead Manor died of natural causes despite an inconclusive postmortem and pathologist's report which failed to identify a reason for death. A police investigation was launched after bloodstains were found near the body and neighbors alleged an angry argument on the night of her death.

Mrs. Lockyer-Fox was discovered on the terrace of Shenstead Manor on the morning of 6 March by her husband. She was wearing nightclothes and had been dead for some time. Colonel Lockyer-Fox, who gave evidence at the inquest, said he believed she must have risen during the night to feed the foxes that were regular visitors to Shenstead Manor. "I can only assume she lost consciousness and died of cold." He denied that the French windows were locked on the inside when he came downstairs, or that Mrs. Lockyer-Fox was unable to regain entry to the house had she wished.