Minette Walters - Fox Evil

He shook his head, drawing on his knowledge of property conveyancing. "I wouldn't think so. It's a mortgage requirement, so it's usually done when a house changes hands… but this one's been in the family since before wood preservative was invented."

She cupped both hands over her forehead. "He could end up with a huge bill if he lets it go. The roof looks as if it's sinking in places… there's a hell of a dip under the middle chimney."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know without looking at the rafters. It depends how long it's been like that. You need to check with some old photographs of the house. It may just be that they used green wood in that part of the construction and it bowed under the weight of the slates. If not-" she lowered her hands-"the timber in the attic may be as rotten as the bargeboards. You can usually smell it. It's pretty unpleasant."

Mark remembered the odor of decay when he arrived on Christmas Eve. "That's all he needs," he remarked grimly, "the bloody roof to cave in as well. Have you ever read Poe's 'The Fall of the House of Usher'? Do you know what the symbolism is?"

"No… and no."

"Corruption. A corrupt family infects the fabric of their house and brings the masonry down on their heads. Remind you of anything?"

"Colorful but entirely improbable," she said with a smile.

A flustered voice spoke behind them. "Is that you, Mr. Ankerton?"

Mark swore under his breath as Nancy gave a start of surprise and swung around to find Eleanor Bartlett, looking every bit her age, on the other side of the gate. Nancy's immediate reaction was sympathy-the woman looked frightened-but Mark was cool to the point of rudeness. "This is a private conversation, Mrs. Bartlett." He put his hand on Nancy's arm to draw her away.

"But it's important," Eleanor said urgently. "Has Dick told you about these people at the Copse?"

"I suggest you ask him," he told her curtly. "I don't make a habit of passing on what people may or may not have said to me." He put his mouth to Nancy's ear. "Walk away," he begged. "Now!"

She gave a brief nod and wandered down the drive, and he thanked God for a woman who didn't ask questions. He turned back to Eleanor. "I've nothing to say to you, Mrs. Bartlett. Good day."

But she wasn't about to be rebuffed so easily. "They know your name," she said rather hysterically. "They know everybody's names… what sort of cars they drive… everything . I think they've been spying on us."

Mark frowned. "Who're 'they'?"

"I don't know. I only saw two of them. They're wearing scarves over their mouths." She reached out a hand to pluck at his sleeve, but he stepped back sharply as if she were leprous. "They know you're James's solicitor."

"Courtesy of you, presumably," he said with an expression of distaste. "You've whipped up half the countryside to believe I'm representing a murderer. There's no law against revealing my name, Mrs. Bartlett, but there are laws of libel and slander and you've broken all of them in relation to my client. I hope you can afford to defend yourself…and pay damages when Colonel Lockyer-Fox wins-" he jerked his head in the direction of Shenstead House-"otherwise your property will be forfeit."

There was no agility of thought in Eleanor's mind. The pressing issue of the moment was the travelers in the Copse, and that was the question she addressed. " I didn't tell them," she protested. "How could I? I've never seen them before in my life. They said the land's terra nullius … I think that was the expression… something to do with Lockean theory… and they're claiming it by adverse possession. Is that legal?"

"Are you asking for my professional opinion?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" she said impatiently, anxiety bringing sparks of color back into her cheeks. "Of course I am. It's James who's going to be affected by them. They're talking about building structures on the Copse." She waved a hand up the road. "Go and look for yourself if you don't believe me."

"My fees are three hundred pounds per hour, Mrs. Bartlett. I am prepared to negotiate a flat rate for advice on legislation re adverse possession, but in view of the complexity of the issue, I would almost certainly have to consult counsel. His charges would be in addition to the agreed amount, and that could take the final figure well over five thousand. Do you still want to engage me?"

Eleanor, whose sense of humor excluded irony, interpreted this answer as deliberately obstructive. Whose side was he on, she wondered, as she looked down the drive after Nancy's black-clad figure? Was this another of them? Was James conspiring with these people? "Are you responsible for this?" she demanded angrily. "Is that how they know so much about the village? Was it you who told them the land was unowned? They said you were in situ and knew something about this wretched terra nullius nonsense."

Mark experienced a similar revulsion to Wolfie's. Ailsa always said Eleanor was older than she looked, and, close up, Mark could see she was right. Her roots needed seeing to and there were pinch marks around her mouth from bad-tempered pouting when she didn't get her own way. She wasn't even handsome, he thought in surprise, just tight-skinned and waspish. He put his hands on the gate and leaned forward, dislike narrowing his eyes.

"Would you care to explain the twisted logic that gave rise to those questions?" he said in a voice that grated with contempt, "or is making false accusations a disease with you? This isn't normal behavior, Mrs. Bartlett. Normal people do not force themselves into private conversations and refuse to leave when asked… nor do they make wild allegations without some basis in fact."

She quailed slightly. "Then why are you treating this as a joke?"

"Treating what as a joke? An assertion by a deeply disturbed woman that people in scarves are talking about me? Does that sound sane to you?" He smiled at her expression. "I'm trying to be generous, Mrs. Bartlett. My personal view is that you're mentally ill… and my judgment is based on the recordings I've listened to of your calls to James. It might interest you to know that your friend Prue Weldon has been more intelligent. She never speaks at all, just leaves a record of her phone number. It won't stop her being charged with making malicious telephone calls, but your calls-" he made a ring of his thumb and forefinger-"we're going to have a field day with them. My best advice is that you see a doctor before you consult a solicitor. If your problems are as serious as I think they are, you might be able to plead mitigation when we play your tapes in open court."

"That's ridiculous," she hissed. "Tell me one thing I've said that isn't true."

" Everything you say is untrue," he flashed back, "and I'd like to know where you've been getting it from. Leo wouldn't speak to you. He's more of a snob than James and Ailsa have ever been, and a social climber wouldn't appeal at all-" he ran a scathing eye over her pastel outfit-"particularly the mutton-dressed-as-lamb variety. And if you believe anything Elizabeth says, you're an idiot. She'll tell you anything you want to hear… as long as the gin keeps flowing."

Eleanor gave a vicious little smile. "If it's all lies, why hasn't James reported the calls to the police?"

" Which calls?" he slammed back aggressively.

There was a tiny hesitation. "Mine and Prue's."

Mark made a commendable attempt to look amused. "Because he's a gentleman… and he's embarrassed on behalf of your husbands. You should listen to yourself occasionally." He put the knife in where he thought it would hurt the most. "The kindest interpretation of your rants against men and where they put their penises is that you're a closet lesbian who's never found the courage to declare herself. A more realistic interpretation is that you're a frustrated bully with obsessions about sex with strangers. Either way, it doesn't say much about your relationship with your husband. Isn't he interested anymore, Mrs. Bartlett?"