suspected what was to come that afternoon and felt in need of some Dutch courage.
They emerged afterwards to view the grounds. Juliet was now suffering severe indigestion from the cheese, which kept burping up reminders of its presence in her stomach in a way that would have been embarrassing if her host had appeared to notice. But his attention was taken elsewhere. All along their way they were severely hampered by woolly-hatted personages of either sex, and occasionally of unattributable sex, popping out from behind walls, bushes, out of ditches . . . the only thing they hadn’t done was drop from the sky. They still brandished placards and in addition thrust forward ancient maps which showed, they claimed, rights of way. They were earnestly eager to engage her and the owner in conversation. All they wanted, they continued to insist, was freedom to roam.
As it was, Juliet’s freedom to roam and inspect had been severely curtailed. But she was very glad indeed she’d witnessed all this. It madeher decision straightforward. The place wouldn’t do.
Rights of way, she’d found before, could cause a lot of trouble. Millionaires like privacy. They are also understandably nervous about their own security. The Texan oilman would not want his defences breached by anoraked and booted open-air enthusiasts. Nor would he wish to see them straggling across the landscape like a column of refugees when he was trying to entertain high-profile guests. The shooting might be thrown into question because the game birds had been disturbed. She struck this particular property from her list of possibles.
‘Sorry,’ she said to the present owner who stood by her in simmering resentment. ‘I shall have to inform my client about this. I can tell you now, he won’t—’
‘I know,’ interrupted the owner disconsolately. ‘And I don’t bally well blame your client!’ He returned to gazing from the window across his moors, dotted with spots of moving colour marking the triumphant progress of the ramblers. ‘You know what I’d like to do? he added wistfully. ‘I’d like to bloody shoot them.’
Driving back to London, Juliet thought about the owner with sympathy. Although she wasn’t unappreciative of the ramblers’ argument, and didn’t really approve of breeding birds simply to shoot them, she was annoyed with the demonstrators. They were the cause of an entire day wasted. There was no question of the Texan oilman taking on the dispute over access. Not that he couldn’t get his lawyers on to it and probably get some decision in his favour, but ill-will would result locally and that sort of thing was best avoided.
Still, thought Juliet recalling the present owner, poor old chap. There he is rattling round in that gloomy great house. Presumably he has no family anxious to live in it. He probably couldn’t afford staff even if staff could be found. That funny old butler is probably all that’s left and the two of them are growing old together in cold and discomfort. There may be death duties and the place would have to be sold probably, when he dies. He wants to sell now, of course he does, and spend some of the cash before the taxman gets it. He could move to a comfortable cottage. He’s in the same situation as Damaris and Florence really, only Fourways is a much smaller house and hasn’t got acres of moorland all round it. Thank goodness the Oakleys don’t have a human problem, like ramblers, gumming up the sale process!
It was late when she got in and the first thing she did was relax in a hot bath. Then she got herself some supper. After that awful lunch sheneeded decent nourishment. It was getting on for eleven and she was about to stumble off to bed, when she remembered the answering machine she’d left switched on that morning. Better check and see if there were any messages.
There were three. The first two were routine. The third drove sleep from Juliet’s brain at once.
A quavering voice, filled with shock
They emerged afterwards to view the grounds. Juliet was now suffering severe indigestion from the cheese, which kept burping up reminders of its presence in her stomach in a way that would have been embarrassing if her host had appeared to notice. But his attention was taken elsewhere. All along their way they were severely hampered by woolly-hatted personages of either sex, and occasionally of unattributable sex, popping out from behind walls, bushes, out of ditches . . . the only thing they hadn’t done was drop from the sky. They still brandished placards and in addition thrust forward ancient maps which showed, they claimed, rights of way. They were earnestly eager to engage her and the owner in conversation. All they wanted, they continued to insist, was freedom to roam.
As it was, Juliet’s freedom to roam and inspect had been severely curtailed. But she was very glad indeed she’d witnessed all this. It madeher decision straightforward. The place wouldn’t do.
Rights of way, she’d found before, could cause a lot of trouble. Millionaires like privacy. They are also understandably nervous about their own security. The Texan oilman would not want his defences breached by anoraked and booted open-air enthusiasts. Nor would he wish to see them straggling across the landscape like a column of refugees when he was trying to entertain high-profile guests. The shooting might be thrown into question because the game birds had been disturbed. She struck this particular property from her list of possibles.
‘Sorry,’ she said to the present owner who stood by her in simmering resentment. ‘I shall have to inform my client about this. I can tell you now, he won’t—’
‘I know,’ interrupted the owner disconsolately. ‘And I don’t bally well blame your client!’ He returned to gazing from the window across his moors, dotted with spots of moving colour marking the triumphant progress of the ramblers. ‘You know what I’d like to do? he added wistfully. ‘I’d like to bloody shoot them.’
Driving back to London, Juliet thought about the owner with sympathy. Although she wasn’t unappreciative of the ramblers’ argument, and didn’t really approve of breeding birds simply to shoot them, she was annoyed with the demonstrators. They were the cause of an entire day wasted. There was no question of the Texan oilman taking on the dispute over access. Not that he couldn’t get his lawyers on to it and probably get some decision in his favour, but ill-will would result locally and that sort of thing was best avoided.
Still, thought Juliet recalling the present owner, poor old chap. There he is rattling round in that gloomy great house. Presumably he has no family anxious to live in it. He probably couldn’t afford staff even if staff could be found. That funny old butler is probably all that’s left and the two of them are growing old together in cold and discomfort. There may be death duties and the place would have to be sold probably, when he dies. He wants to sell now, of course he does, and spend some of the cash before the taxman gets it. He could move to a comfortable cottage. He’s in the same situation as Damaris and Florence really, only Fourways is a much smaller house and hasn’t got acres of moorland all round it. Thank goodness the Oakleys don’t have a human problem, like ramblers, gumming up the sale process!
It was late when she got in and the first thing she did was relax in a hot bath. Then she got herself some supper. After that awful lunch sheneeded decent nourishment. It was getting on for eleven and she was about to stumble off to bed, when she remembered the answering machine she’d left switched on that morning. Better check and see if there were any messages.
There were three. The first two were routine. The third drove sleep from Juliet’s brain at once.
A quavering voice, filled with shock
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