Mrs. Malory and A Time To Die (19 page)

 

When I got home I mulled over what I’d heard about Dan Webster and what he could have been talking to Simon about. What, indeed, had he been saying to leave Simon so upset? Jim Robinson had said that Webster was into property, presumably in a big way, but I couldn’t imagine how that might affect Simon. True, he’d inherited the stables and the land all round, but I didn’t think small riding stables would tempt someone like Dan Webster, and no one could ever get planning permission to build in the fields, so it couldn’t be that. I remembered seeing his Mitsubishi up on the moors beside Jo’s Land Rover. Obviously whatever it was that Webster wanted he’d been pursuing for a long time, since I didn’t think, somehow, that particular meeting had just been about Tarquin. It all seemed very strange.

My thoughts were rudely interrupted by a noise from the kitchen. Foss, in an attempt to get at an impertinent blue tit that had been pecking at the putty in the window, had leapt onto the windowsill, knocking down a handsome coleus plant I’d been nurturing, and smashing the pot. Undeterred by this, he was still on the windowsill, chittering angrily at the birds on the feeder.

As I resignedly swept up the soil and pottery fragments, I suddenly thought of Liz and the smile she had given Simon. It occurred to me that Vicky’s suggestion, though given for the wrong reason, might very well be a happy ending for both of them.

Chapter Sixteen

“I was going to circulate the lottery information,” Anthea said, backing me up into a corner in the post office, “but Muriel, who said she’d do the photocopying, had to go up to Reading because her sister’s had a fall and there’s no one else to look after their father. George
says
he’ll get it done for us—he’s got a photocopier at home, so it won’t cost us anything—but he’s not very reliable. Anyway, Derek is going to see to the application itself. He used to be something very high up in insurance, so I suppose he should be competent to do that. It’s been most annoying—all these delays when I really wanted us to get moving
quickly
. There will be so many applications and we mustn’t miss our chance, but push ahead.”

Anthea obviously saw the whole lottery system as a kind of race where the prizes would go to the fastest, who would gain their advantage by elbowing the other competitors out of the way.

“I’m sure Derek will do it admirably,” I said, seizing the least controversial thread of her narrative.

“But what we
must
do,” she continued, “is to start to raise our share of the money as soon as possible. I’m calling a committee meeting for next week—Tuesday, I thought—and I do hope people will come with a lot of good ideas.”

“I don’t think I can manage Tuesday,” I said.

Anthea gave an exclamation of impatience. “It’s always the same,” she said crossly. “It’s practically impossible to arrange any sort of meeting at a time to suit everyone. Don’t tell me you’re off on holiday again!”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just that I’ve got several appointments fixed for that day and I really can’t cancel them.”

“Oh, is that all,” Anthea said, brushing my excuse to one side. “We can have the meeting in the evening, then. I’m sure you’ll be able manage that! Say seven o’clock?”

“Oh, not seven,” I said. “Don’t you remember, all the people who eat in the evening do find that difficult—you either have to eat too early or too late.”

“Oh really, such nonsense! I have my main meal at midday—so much better for you. Well, in that case we’ll make it six; it won’t go on that long.”

“No,” I said doubtfully, remembering several acrimonious meetings that had gone on until very late in the evening. “No, that should be fine.”

“I’ll give George a reminder so that you can all have the lottery information before the meeting. And remember,” Anthea said briskly, “lots of new, bright ideas!”

“Actually,” I said, “do we know how much money we need to raise? I mean, what’s the whole thing going to cost? How much are we applying for?”

“That’s another thing,” Anthea said with some annoyance. “Steve Webber was going to come and give me an estimate, but when I rang, his wife said he’d gone off to Barnstaple to do some big electrical job there and wouldn’t be back for a fortnight.”

“In that case,” I suggested, “wouldn’t it be better to wait until we’ve got the estimate before we have the meeting? I mean, Derek can’t make an application until we know how much we actually want.”

“Not at all,” Anthea said firmly. “We need to have plans made so that we can start raising our part of the money as soon as possible.”

Fortunately the post office queue, which had been building up while this conversation was going on, now impinged on our space and gave me an excuse for bringing our talk to a conclusion.

 

“So,” I said to Michael when he came round to saw up an old apple tree that had fallen down in the garden, “poor Derek’s been lumbered with this lottery thing. I should think he must regret being retired, what with all the jobs around the house that Edna has been saving up for him over the years, and now Anthea nagging him!”

“And his work on the parish council,” Michael said. “I suppose it’s the usual case of the willing horse.”

“I don’t think anyone forced to do something by Anthea could be called willing,” I said.

“Oh yes, I meant to tell you,” Michael went on. “He told me that the council—I mean the planning committee of the District Council—have decided to change the District Plan to redesignate some of the land near the stables from agricultural to potential-development use. This means that it
could
be built on.”

“Really? I haven’t seen anything about it in the
Free Press
.”

“No, they have to let the parish councils know first—and some other people too; I can’t remember who—before the public get to know about it.”

“So, technically, someone could build houses on the fields round the stables. That’s awful!”

“Well, Jo and Charlie, and now Simon, own all the fields immediately next to the stables. Simon would never sell, so it should be all right.”

“I suppose so. But, all the same, it’s horrid to think of houses, or worse, in those beautiful fields.”

“It’s not a conservation area,” Michael said, “and people have to live somewhere.”

“Yes, I know that, but there’s a lot of places on the outskirts of Taviscombe where they’ve been building already, so a few more houses over there wouldn’t make any difference. And this is agricultural land—pasture anyway.”

“Well, as I said, Simon won’t sell and those fields go right up to the edge of the woods, so that particular spot is safe.”

“Thank goodness.”

“I expect the council will grant planning permission if the developer, whoever it is, promises to build a certain amount of affordable housing. It’s the sort of deal they make.”

“Of course!” I said. “That’s what that horrible man Dan Webster must have wanted!”

“Dan Webster?”

“Yes, I’ve seen him up at the stables several times, to see Simon, and Jo too. I’m sure he was pestering them to sell those fields. He sounded really unpleasant when he was up there talking to Simon a few days ago.”

“Unpleasant?”

“Yes, as he was going I heard him say there was a great deal still to discuss, and he said he’d be back. It sounded quite threatening, and Thea said Simon seemed really upset when she saw him afterwards.”

“It’s certainly the sort of deal Webster might want to make. It’s the kind of thing he does. They say he usually gets what he wants somehow or other. But I don’t think we need worry about Simon. I’m sure he’d never give in to someone like Webster. Anyway, I must get on. I think I’ll have to use the band saw on this lot. It’s not very sharp, but it’s better than the big one.”

As I went into the house to make Michael a cup of tea, I thought about Simon and wondered about his ability to stand up to Dan Webster. I was sure he wouldn’t want to sell the fields, but I wondered just how well he might stand up to that sort of bullying. Jo would have done. Presumably that was what Webster wanted when they met up on the moor; it would hardly have been about Tarquin. No, Jo would have seen him off. But if Simon had been as upset as Thea said he was when he’d had just a short meeting with Webster, how would he cope with “I’ll be back,” which was obviously going to be a continuing attack. I wondered if there was anyone who could bolster up Simon’s self-confidence and stiffen his resistance. I thought I might have a word with Rosemary, who knows him better than most.

 

Tuesday’s meeting at Brunswick Lodge went off more or less as I’d expected. Although George had managed to photocopy the lottery information, there was a certain amount of grumbling about not knowing how much the job would cost.

“We need the actual
figures
,” Derek kept saying. “It’s not good asking me to do anything without them, because I can’t.”

“How can we know what to raise,” Maureen said plaintively, “if we don’t know the
proportion
required?”

The phrase obviously pleased her since she repeated it several times, as Derek kept reiterating his need for the figures. Anthea, not one to encourage democratic comment, simply ignored them and, raising her voice slightly, brought the meeting to order.

“What we have to do,” she said firmly, “is to consider all possible ways of raising our share of the money—whatever,” she said, glancing sternly at Maureen, “that may be. Now, I do hope all of you have come armed with some original ideas.”

As usual, after such a request, there was dead silence all round the table.

“Well, come along,” Anthea said impatiently. “Surely
somebody’s
done some thinking and come up with something.”

Gradually the usual suggestions emerged: raffles, auctions, bring and buy sales, sponsored walks, a concert. All such ideas were tentatively proposed by one member and promptly disparaged by the rest.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Anthea said. “Sheila, you haven’t said anything yet. Surely you’ve got some suggestion to make!”

“Well,” I said, “why don’t we simply ask for donations? People will usually give you something if you ask them directly, and I’m sure we’d make just as much money that way.”

There was a brief moment’s shocked silence at this revolutionary idea, and then Anthea said scathingly, “Well, really, if you’re just going to make silly suggestions like that . . .”

“Why don’t we have a break for a cup of tea?” Maureen suggested. “I’ll just go and put the kettle on.”

She went off into the kitchen, closely followed by Derek’s wife, Edna, a reluctant member of the committee who only ever came to the meetings to make sure Derek wasn’t going to be put upon (her words) by Anthea. While we were having our tea, people broke up into little groups and I went over to talk to Derek.

“Derek,” I said, “have you ever come across a man called Dan Webster?”

His expression changed from its usual bland amiability to a positive scowl.

“Yes, I have,” he said, “and I hope he’s not a friend of yours because a nastier piece of work I’ve yet to meet.”

“No,” I said hastily, “certainly not. In fact I think he’s trying to put pressure on a friend and I’m rather worried.”

“Putting pressure on people is something he does all the time,” Derek said. “That place of his up at Upper Barton, now that’s a case in point.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It belonged to elderly friends of mine, and when Edgar died last year we all wondered what Margaret—that’s his wife—would do. It was much too big for her and really, to be honest, needed a lot done to it. But this Webster man heard about it and badgered her to sell it to him. Now, there was no need for her to make a big decision like that straightaway—at a time like that when she was still grieving. But he kept on at her; said she wouldn’t get a good price for it because of all the work it needed; hassled her until she gave in. Unfortunately, we were away just then, visiting our son in Canada, and when her nephew up in Doncaster—they didn’t have any children—got to hear about it, it was too late. Webster paid a fair price, but it was the way he went about it that made us so mad.”

“They say he always gets what he wants,” I said, “somehow or other.”

“Like I said, nasty piece of work. There was another thing too.”

“Really?”

“I didn’t deal with it myself, but a colleague of mine said that he bought a big old house just outside Taunton. It was very run-down and would have taken a fortune to put right. Anyway, Webster applied for permission to pull it down, but it was a grade two-listed building, so he didn’t get it. Then it started to get vandalized—I wouldn’t have put it past him to have organized that—and then there was a fire. The whole house wasn’t burnt down, but there was a lot of damage. That’s when my colleague was involved over the insurance. Finally it got into such a state that it was downright dangerous and
had
to be pulled down, which, of course, is what he’d wanted in the first place.”

“You think he arranged the whole thing?” I asked.

“Well, let’s say I think he helped things along. Nothing could be proved, of course. People like Webster are good at covering their tracks.”

“I can imagine. So what happened?”

“There was quite a bit of land with the house, so he had some plans drawn up with a couple of starter homes as a sop to the council and built half a dozen fair-sized houses on the site.”

“And made a great deal of money?”

“Exactly. So tell your friend to be careful.”

Anthea, who’d been getting restless at the prolonged tea-drinking, made efforts to chivy us all back to the meeting, but George looked at his watch and said he had to be going, and several other people said they had to go too. Anthea was engaged in some sort of argument with Maureen (“For goodness’ sake, the proportion doesn’t
matter
!”), so I took the opportunity to slip away while her back was turned.