John Creasey: The Toff on The Farm

“I distinctly recall that when we placed this trophy in position, sir, you said that country life no longer attracted you, and that London was the place for us.”

M.M.M. jumped up. That was quite a feat, for he was a plump young man with one real and one aluminium leg. His round, red face was earnest and his blue eyes aglow.

“Now, be fair,” he urged. “You can’t judge this farm by a chicken farm. They’re not in the same field. Given a plot of land, a few half-addled eggs and an incubator, anyone can rear fowls, but I’m talking about a man-size farm. It grows nearly everything from cows to cabbages. The farmhouse is three hundred years old, too, a positive period gem.”

“Most attractive, sir, I’m sure,” said Jolly, and added to Rollison, “Is there anything else you require?”

“Not now, Jolly.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jolly, and retired while Rollison leaned forward to pick up the coffee pot. M.M.M. stared first at Jolly’s straight back and then at the closed door, and said in a tone of bewilderment:

“It’s true, then.”

“What’s true?”

“That Hollywood offered you ten thousand a year for Jolly.”

“Black or white?” asked Rollison.

“Does he change colour?” demanded M.M.M., wilfully obtuse, and limped to his chair and dropped into it, took a cup of coffee and two chocolate biscuits, and went on : “I shouldn’t really, my waistline’s expanding at a rate of one button every two weeks. Roily, I’ve been thinking. How is it that a handsome, well-set-up, active, virile, immaculate, wealthy man like you has never married? Don’t tell me; I think I can read the reason in your eyes. You have never found the right woman. Plenty of pets for a peccadillo or two, but never one with whom you felt you could share your life. I know the reason. You have been starved of real beauty. All the women you know here live in a kind of half world of their own, a positive demi-monde de Londres. Slinky, pale, erzatz beauties, they sleep during the day and creep out of their rabbit warrens by night, taking a cab or a car for fear of breathing in a little faintly fresh air, leaning against bars or dancing with lethargic “

“Why do you want me to go and see this farm?” asked Rollison, firmly.

“Well, at least I got the message over, I thought you weren’t ever going to tumble to it.” M.M.M. sipped his coffee, and nibbled another chocolate biscuit. “As a matter of fact, old boy, it’s owned by a buddy of mine and his sister. They inherited it as the sole relic of the Selby family fortune. The trouble really began when they tried to sell it. Mind you, I use the word ‘trouble’ in a strictly limited sense. For you it wouldn’t be any trouble at all, but for Alan and Gillian Selby it’s a headache. I mean, why should the old Scarecrow want to frighten customers off?”

“Ah,” said Rollison, straight-faced. “Does he, then.”

“Positively. And don’t get anything wrong, the Selbys are not mean. They’ve offered the old Scarecrow a cottage, rent free, damned decent of them to my way of thinking, but he won’t hear of it. Whenever a prospective buyer goes to look over the place, he casts doubts on the Selbys’ rights to the deeds, says there’ll be trouble in store for any new owner, because he’s taking it to court, and then he asserts that the place is falling to pieces and the well-water isn’t fit to drink and there’s no main water yet. He says the plumbing won’t plumb and the ceilings are falling down, and at the slightest hint of rain, it comes through the roof at a dozen places. I mean,” asked M.M.M. most earnestly, “do you think it’s right, old boy?”

“I think they could get him out if they went to law about it.”

“He’s been tenant of the farm for thirty years, he knew the Selby’s parents well, and when they were young they used to call him Uncle Silas. I mean, when you’ve called a man Uncle Silas, you can’t very well have the law on him, can you ? Even if it were on your side. And is it ? He has a long lease and pays his rent. He simply won’t give up the farm, although he’s too old to run it properly.”

“Why won’t he give it up ?”

“That’s why I want you to buy the place,” said M.M.M. “If you bought it you’d have every right to go down there and investigate. But you’d have to buy it so that you wouldn’t be committing trespass, or anything like that. I mean,” he added, glancing at the Trophy Wall, “I wouldn’t like to encourage you to break the law, old boy. It’s going for a mere song.”

“Sing it.”

“Sixpence.”

“Stop fooling.”

“I’m serious,” asserted M.M.M, “A simple contract to buy, signed over a sixpenny stamp, is all that’s needed. Then you would be entitled to look over the place, and within reason do what you liked. Really all you need is something to wave in the Scarecrow’s face. I know that these days you’re a professional investigator, and if a millionaire wants your services, why shouldn’t he pay you a fortune ? But this is different. Alan Selby plucked me out of that burning crate, but for him I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale. And I know that I have no legal claim on you, but here I shamelessly exert a moral right,” went on M.M.M., his smile now a little strained. “I introduced you to Champagne Charlie, and if you didn’t get a whacking great fee out of him, it’s Jolly’s fault. Best I can offer you is a lunch at Chiro’s and free milk for the rest of your life if you can prise the Scarecrow away from that farm. I assume you are already supplied with free eggs.”

“I’ll have the eggs as well,” murmured Rollison.

Montagu Montmorency Mome’s plump face lit up as if the sun were shining on it, and his blue eyes made him look like a babe in arms.

“You’ll do it?”

“I’ll go and have a look at the place, anyhow.”

“Bless your little nylon socks ! Roily, I don’t mind admitting that’s a great relief, I didn’t think you’d bite. Tell me, did my spiel melt you, or was it my appeal to your stem sense of duty?”

“Neither,” answered Rollison promptly.

“Eh?”

“Neither.”

“Then what?”

“About six months ago, when you were in hospital, I came to see you,” explained Rollison. “Remember? There was some loose talk that you weren’t going to survive, and I wanted a last look into your blue eyes, so I came along. And coming out of the ward as I reached it was “

“Oh, no,” groaned M.M.M. “Gillian Selby in the flesh.”

“In point of fact, she was wearing a most attractive suit which looked as if it had come from Paris.” Rollison poured out more coffee, and went on briskly : “Anyone as beautiful as that has to be helped out of trouble.”

“The difficulty with you is your all-seeing eye,” complained M.M.M., with a touch of bitterness. “You’ll probably go down to Selby Farm, take one look at the Scarecrow, and say he won’t get out because he’s haunted by a sixteenth-century witch who tells him he’ll expire if he ever spends a night outside its four walls. When will you go?”

“Let’s have lunch on the way,”

“Roily,” said Montagu Montmorency Morne, “I don’t know whether you’ve agreed to look at the place because of Gillian’s big eyes, my tin leg, your sense of duty or your sentimental heart, but I’m damned glad you’re going. It’s a peculiar business and the Selbys don’t want to get really rough with Old Smith.”

“Scarecrow Smith?”

“Yes. But there’s some odd business going on down there, that’s certain. Incidentally, the Selbys live at the cottage which they’d turn over to Smith if he’d leave the farmhouse. He has it on an old lease from Gillian Selby’s father. They’re only half-brother, half-sister, same father. Also as background, Gillian’s parents died when Gillian was very young. Alan’s a kind of brother-cum-father. Mind if I give them a tinkle, and say we’ll be there about three o’clock?”