A Hovering of Vultures by Robert Barnard Page A

Haworth, as he said yesterday. I imagine the farm was probably going cheap, with agriculture in the state it’s in at the moment, but still . . .”
    â€œBut still, indeed. I take it he sees it as the shrine of a new cult. But a very minor one, surely. I just don’t see what’s in it for him , Dexter.”
    â€œNor,” said Charlie grimly, “do I.”
    â€œAnd we’re agreed there must be something, aren’t we?”
    â€œIt seems likely,” said Charlie, more guardedly.
    â€œThat’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”
    â€œNo comment, as politicians ought to say when people make allegations about their sex life.”
    Lettie got out a note to pay the taxi driver, and looked meaningfully at the man, who was now a friend.
    â€œAnd you haven’t heard a word of this conversation, Len.”
    â€œI haven’t. Any more than I heard any of the names you called your mother on the way back last night.”
    â€œToo right. I’m glad we see eye to eye.”
    The crowd milling around the village hall was much more animated and united than it had been the first morning. As Charlie helped Lettie out of the taxi he saw the two ladies who had been making sentimental remarks about Susannah Sneddon, the devoted gardener and flower-lover. He whispered to Lettie:
    â€œAre you ‘coming out’ today?”
    â€œWhat can you mean?”
    â€œAs someone who knew the Sneddons?”
    â€œI was thinking of saying something at the meeting.”
    â€œGood. You could become the Fellowship’s mascot. Or perhaps its bête noir. Anyway, there are these people I want you to meet.” And leading her over to the sentimental pair, he introduced her: “Ladies, this is Lettie Farraday, from New York. I mentioned her to you yesterday: born and brought up here in Micklewike. She used to go up with her mother to clean for Susannah Sneddon.”
    He saw the suspicion in their eyes change to greedy interest: they were in the presence of one who had touched greatness. He thought he heard the flapping of large wings.He stood there for only a second or two, but even so the questions had begun tumbling out: “Did you really? What was she like? What was her relationship with her brother really like? Did they row?” As he moved away he thought to himself that he would rather like to know the answer to that last question. And as he surveyed the smiling, chattering throng, and saw several members of the new Fellowship dart over and join in the inquisition of Lettie, a further thought occurred to him. Lettie was ‘coming out’ today, but effectively as far as the village was concerned she had been ‘out’ since Friday evening. Mr Suzman had close contacts with the village: he had been frequently in the area while setting up the Museum—that much Charlie had been told at Scotland Yard. So someone from the village, probably Mrs Marsden or Mrs Cardew, the woman who was acting as Secretary, must surely have told him that at the Weekend there was a woman who had known Susannah Sneddon, had known the interior of the farm while she lived there. Yet he had made no attempt to contact Lettie.
    Odd.
    He moved over to the group around Gerald Suzman, which consisted mostly of the Coggenhoe family. He braved the looks of hostility from the great author and his wife and grinned at Felicity—a grin that expressed appreciation of their time together the previous evening. Then he stood listening. It was Mr Suzman who was doing most of the talking.
    â€œYes, indeed, a very busy weekend. But exhilarating tool Glad when it’s over? Not at all, dear lady. But perhaps a little relieved that it’s all gone so well. I shall relax tonight in my cottage in Oxenthorpe with a bottle of my favourite Alsace, and perhaps soothe myself with Mozart’s last and greatest opera.”
    â€œ The Magic Flute ?” hazarded Mary