`That would depend where we were, sir. In Aldershot no. Out on active service - yes. But a soldier isn't a servant, sir.'
'Well - if we were in Magdalena, New Mexico - as I was, with Jim Eliot?'
`If I were one of your cowboys, sir, I'd be happy to accept your offer.
If I were with you in the capacity of personal attendant, I wouldn't.' 'You know your trouble, Thomas - you're a snob.' `Yes, sir. Very much so.'
Mr Franklin made his way to the Apple Tree alone, reflecting on the personal and professional pride of Thomas Samson, gentleman's gentleman, and deciding that he liked him very well indeed. And Samson was right, of course; he knew far better than Mr Franklin how to keep the master-servant relationship running smoothly. It was satisfactory to know that it could not only survive the kind of conversation they had just had, but be all the better for it. By God, he thought, that's a real expert. For, when he viewed the matter calmly, it was ludicrous that he, Mark Franklin, should have a valet who waited on him; it was against all his training, and upbringing, and beliefs moral, spiritual, and political. And yet Samson made it seem the most natural thing in the world, and maintained a perfect self-respect at the same time. In his way, quite a remarkable man.
He drank his pint at the Apple Tree, and bought one for Jake, who was perched in his usual place at the end of the bar. Jake had been in something of a huff since Samson's arrival, which had deprived him of his self-appointed stewardship over Lancing Manor, at least as far as the internal arrangements were concerned. Jake continued to fight a delaying action over the grounds and out-houses, jealously watching to see that the newcomer did not encroach on his paths, borders, and lawns; since Samson had no interest in these, and had forgotten more about man-management than Jake would ever know, their relationship was improving gradually, and Jake now came occasionally for his cup of tea to the back-door in the afternoon, like an ancient sparrow accepting crumbs after warily scouting the provider. Now, finding that he had Mr Franklin to himself for the first time in weeks, he waxed garrulous on the condition of the back wall, and the drainage of the kitchen garden, for which he had grandiose plans in the coming year; Mr Franklin heard him out contentedly, and it would have amazed Jake beyond all measure to learn that his patron was actually musing on the fact that Jake's conversation was at once more stimulating and restful than that of his majesty's drawing-room. Afterwards Mr Franklin strolled back to the Manor, and was considering retiring early when there was a knock at the front door. He looked out of his study as Samson answered the door, and was surprised to see Thornhill stepping into the hall.
`They told me in the pub that you were back. I thought I ought to let you know as soon as possible - the curate was round to see me this afternoon, rather distressed.' Thornhill shook his head. 'It's a damned odd business - they're trying to get old Bessie Reeve out of Lye Cottage.'
11
`Now then,' said Mr Franklin grimly, `let's just get this straight. I want to be sure I have it right.'
They were in the curate's cottage, where Mr Franklin had insisted on going directly after hearing Thornhill's strange tale; they had found the curate on the point of going to bed, and he was now pouring tea with that fussy old-maidishness of which only a very large, virile young Englishman is capable, and summarising the facts.
About one week previously a very kind gentleman had called on Mrs Reeve, bearing a bottle of rum and the information that another very kind gentleman wished to let her have a cottage in a neighbouring village, if she would move out of her present home. It was very important that she should move, since her ground was needed for some great scheme which would benefit the neighbourhood; she could expect a cash reward if she co-operated. She had accepted the rum but declined the offer, and the kind gentleman had gone away.
The next day, however, another man had called, and he had not been kind. He had brought no rum, and he had spoken as though her departure was a foregone conclusion. He had also warned her to say nothing about himself or the kind gentleman to anyone; it would be best if she simply told her present landlord that she did not like the changes at Lye and wished to leave. The man had hinted that it might be unpleasant for her if she said anything more, and old Bessie had been so thoroughly frightened that she mentioned the visits to no one.
Then, two evenings later, the unpleasant man had returned, with a large, rough-looking companion; they had not come to the cottage but had stood beyond the gate, watching. They had still been there at dusk, and Bessie had lain awake all night in an extremity of terror. The next evening she had seen them again, and that night, after dark, she had heard footsteps round the house; they had stopped beneath her window, and she thought she had heard soft, sinister laughter.
`Mrs Farrar found her weeping and cowering under the bedclothes next morning,' concluded the curate. 'Naturally, she sent for me, and I got the whole disgusting story out of old Bessie, who was in a complete blue funk with it all. Mrs Farrar has stayed with her since, and I've been keeping a look-out after dark.'
Mr Franklin had sat motionless during the recital, his eyes on the curate's face. Now he asked carefully: `Was either of the men who called on her a military man, maybe?'
'No, nothing like that. Oh, you mean Major Blake. No, it wasn't him, or anyone local.'
'Why should you think I meant Blake?' asked Mr Franklin sharply.
'Common sense, old boy,' said Thornhill. `Blake called on you after you bought Lye Cottage, didn't he? And everyone knows Lacy has been trying to buy up that side of the village for ages. You wouldn't sell, though, we hear. So now they've come up with this new ploy, presumably in the hope that Bessie would be scared into leaving without telling you why. I say, Ralph, speaking of Bessie - you wouldn't have anything stronger than tea, would you?'
'In the cupboard,' said the curate, who was watching Mr Franklin with slight apprehension. 'We haven't told the police, or anything like that - we thought it best to wait till you got back. Besides,' the curate's mild blue eyes glinted behind his spectacles, 'I was rather hoping the brutes might show up again - I haven't had much exercise lately.'
Mr Franklin sat in silence; he was actually working hard to prevent himself seething visibly with rage at the thought of the tiny old woman crouching terrified in the dark, knowing that hulking enemies were lurking outside ... waiting for the creak of boards, the stealthy footfall, the slow lifting of the latch .. .
`Police can't do anything, anyway,' said Thornhill, busily pouring the curate's whisky. 'You couldn't press charges, not as it stands. They haven't broken any law.'
`Terrifying an old woman nearly to death?' exclaimed the curate. `Menacing her - '
'Prove it. You can see old Bessie in the witness-box, can't you?'
'The police could at least put a man or her gate - '
'To spend all winter guarding Bessie Reeve? Talk sense, Ralph. Anyway, it's odds they won't come back; they've done what they wanted - scared a senile old woman even sillier than she is. Now she can live with her night fears until the polite gentleman calls again by day and suggests she moves out quietly. God!' Thornhill stirred wrathfully in his chair. 'I'd like to see the swine flogged to ribbons!'
`But hang it!' protested the curate. 'We can't just sit back and do nothing!' Thornhill shrugged, and they both looked at Mr Franklin, who was sitting with his hands clasped, staring narrow-eyed at the table. At last he spoke.
'Oh, there are things we can do. Things I can do, anyway. I can't give old Bessie back her peace of mind for a while - Mrs Farrar will have to bunk down there until the old girl gets over it.' He rose and picked up his hat. 'But I can make sure she's never troubled again. That's easy.'
On that he took his leave, and the curate rescued the last of his whisky and wondered: 'What d'you suppose he'll do?'
'Something original, I daresay - like breaking Lacy's neck, with luck. I know, incidentally,' went on Thornhill wisely, 'why Lacy wants Lye. Oh, we know he always has - but he wants it worse than ever now because friend Franklin
's got it. You know they've been at each other's throats already, over at Oxton? No? Well, rumour has it that the fair Miss Clayton is involved - you know how it was with her and Lacy. Well, that's all over, and our stalwart colonial is the favoured beau.'
'No!' said the curate. 'Well, well, well! She's rather a peach, Peggy Clayton - far too good for a tick like Lacy. I say, d'you really think he sicked those bullies on to frighten Bessie?'
'Who else?' said Thornhill. 'Anyway, I'd love to be there when he tries to convince Franklin that he didn't.'
But Thornhill would have been puzzled if he could have seen how the American prepared for that momentous confrontation. Gower Estate's office was on Thetford's main street, and Major Blake was to be found there most days, although Lord Lacy's visits were infrequent. Mr Franklin might have been expected to make an appointment to see his lordship; instead, having consulted the lawyer who served him locally, he simply repaired to a modest teashop opposite the Gower office, sat down at a little table near the window, and waited for three days. It was eccentric behaviour by the standards of anyone unfamiliar with Mr Franklin's background; for those three days he gave no thought to other business, rising early and driving into Thetford, taking up his station in the tea-shop, sitting patiently until six o'clock, and then driving home. On both Wednesday and Thursday he observed Major Blake arriving and leaving, and the vehicles and pedestrians passing by; he took his meals where he sat, paid no attention to the other customers, and drove the proprietor and waitresses of the tea-shop into a frenzy of speculation. No, he didn't require anything else, thank you; no, he wasn't expecting anyone else to join him. He was just waiting; the proprietor and waitresses retired, baffled, and wondered if they ought to do anything about the tall American gentleman - yes, he was the one from Castle Lancing, that was him all right - who was simply content to sit at the table, stirring his occasional cup of coffee, and looking out at the street with patient indifference. They concluded eventually that he was a loony, and left him alone.
In fact, Mr Franklin was behaving instinctively. He had sat in exactly that way, in other places, waiting, and he saw no reason to adjust his behaviour. A psychologist, had there been such a thing in Thetford, would have found him an object of some interest, and might have speculated on the trance-like attitude which he assumed as he sat back from the window, impassive and relaxed. He would have been intrigued to see the curious images which from time to time crossed the waiting man's mind as he gazed out at the drizzle, the occasional cab and wagon going by, or the motor car coughing and rattling on the wet cobbles, the figures leaning into their umbrellas as they hurried against the rain.
Where had it been - Casper or Cheyenne? He couldn't remember, and yet he could recall the spot on the check table-cloth, and the feel of the hard chairback against his spine, the cramp in his leg rested on the chair opposite, and how every few minutes he bad laid his hand on the butt of the Remington, easing it out of the holster and back again. The crowded street through the flyblown window curtains, and the steady, falling rain; the slickered figures at the hitching-rail, the steam rising from the backs of the horses, the crack of whips as the big wagons lumbered by, churning up the rich black mud-and across the street on the boardwalk Harry Tracy, in his long coat and billycock hat, the shotgun under his arm, his head turning ceaselessly as he looked up and down the street. Waiting for the same thing, for different reasons; Tracy knew he was there, and why, but that nothing would happen, not yet. And still there was no sign of Deaf Charley; a dozen times in that long day he had stiffened slightly at the sight of a likely figure drawing rein outside the Morning Star saloon where Tracy was standing; a dozen times he had relaxed, disappointed and yet relieved, when the figure had not been Deaf Charley. And it had been evening, with the yellow lamps guttering and reflecting through the rain, and his attention had wandered - and then Tracy was talking to a rider at the hitching-rail, and glancing nervously across the street, and the figure was dismounting easily, without haste, cocking his head forward to hear what Tracy said, cupping his ear under the broad-brimmed hat, laughing and turning to survey the street - and that had been Deaf Charley Hanks at last. Dirty and down-at-heel as always, unshaven, shambling in his walk, his thumb resting in his belt beside the big Navy Colt that was the only clean and well-kept thing about him. Should he let them go into the saloon, and walk in on them there, or go straight out now? Tracy was liable to run, but not the other one, not O.C.Hanks, alias Camilla, alias Jones, alias Deaf Charley. He had felt the muscles tightening in his stomach as he fingered the Remington for the hundredth time and stood up, pushing back his chair and dropping his dollar on the table, watching through the window as Tracy backed on to the boardwalk, shotgun cradled, and Hanks settled himself against the hitching-rail, gnawing at a tobacco plug while he watched the street and waited. And now that the moment had come, he felt easy, as he put on his hat and went out to meet Deaf Charley.
Well, Thetford wasn't Cheyenne - or Casper - thank God, and Deaf Charley Hanks was dead and gone and of no significance anywhere. But the rule that fitted one was just as useful in the other; watch and wait, and by inaction fret the opposition's nerves. So he sipped his coffee, and wondered how long it would be before it became a matter of general remark that the new American from Castle Lancing was sitting, day after day, in the little tea-shop, doing nothing; the waitresses were whispering about it, and perhaps the word would spread, in such a small place, and people would be puzzled. It was quite amusing, really; it would make Major Blake think, when he heard about it; nothing disturbing, of course, not in peaceful old Norfolk, but unusual, unexpected, and what on earth could he be doing that for? Odd chap - not quite right in the head, perhaps?
Mr Franklin smiled. Three times on the Thursday afternoon Major Blake appeared at the upstairs window of Gower Estate Ltd, looking, out into the street with apparent unconcern, glancing up and down with his hands in his pockets, and each time his glance came to rest on the tea-shop window, with its blank glazed face and muslin curtains. Mr Franklin's smile grew a little broader, and he ordered another cup of coffee.
It was on the Friday morning that Lord Lacy made his appearance. A fine Daimler drew up outside Gower Estate Ltd shortly before noon, and his lordship went into the office. Mr Franklin paid his bill, and walked the short distance to the premises of Smith, Cross, Newbold, and Wise. Mr Cross apologised to the client he was interviewing, begged to be excused, and followed Mr Franklin to Gower Estate Ltd, where they entered the front office and asked the young clerk if they might see Lord Lacy. At that moment Major Blake appeared at the head of the stairs, looked down, started violently, and disappeared.
'It's in connection with Lye Cottage, at Castle Lancing, in which I understand the estate is interested,' said Mr Franklin. `I've already spoken to Major Blake about it, and now I'd value a word with Lord Lacy. I have my legal adviser with me.'
That, he thought as the clerk scurried upstairs, should set things moving. Five minutes passed, and he could guess at the frantic speculation that must be ensuing; finally the clerk descended. Would they please step this way?
Lacy was standing by the window, his thumbs in his weskit pockets, scowling out at the rain; Major Blake, behind the desk, performed the greetings and waved them to chairs, Lacy bestowing no more than a curt nod on Mr Franklin in reply to his quiet 'Good morning, my lord.' Mr Cross seated himself primly, Major Blake clasped his hands on the desk before him and assumed a ruptured smile.
`Well, Mr Franklin, may I say how pleased we are to see you again. Pleased and surprised. I confess I hadn't expected to be talking to you again so soon, about Lye Cottage.' He paused. 'What can we do for you?'
'I'm a little surprised myself,' said Mr Franklin. 'I thought our last conversation had settled the matter. But in fact, major, there has been a development. Since we talked, I've been thinking about things, and I've modified my views a little. In fact,' he settled back in his chair, 'I've come to tell you that I've changed my mind.'
&nbs
p; Lacy turned abruptly from the window to stare at him; Major Blake's well-cultivated eyebrows rose sharply. It was plain that whatever they had expected, it wasn't this. Lacy's heavy face still wore its habitual scowl, but it was a scowl of astonishment.
'Well,' said the major, 'I am delighted to hear it. Absolutely delighted.' His smile expanded, but cautiously. 'May I ask what brought about this ... ah, change?'
'Several things,' said Mr Franklin, and looked from one face to the other, the major's impassive and watchful, Lacy's heavy with suspicion, but with a slight curl of the full lips beneath the bushy moustache. They must surely be wondering incredulously if their pressure on Mrs Reeve had paid off in some unexpected way; Lacy might already be feeling the first stirring of triumph ...
'You remember, major, that when we talked some time ago, I told you that if Mrs Reeve wanted to leave Lye Cottage, I would let you have it and welcome.' He smiled. 'I think I added that I wasn't a horse-trader, and that I'd no wish to put a shotgun to your head where the price was concerned.' He looked an amiable question at the major.