Sea Lord

  In short I needed Sir Leon Buzzacott. He had known that, which was why he had sent Jennifer Pallavicini with the message that he would look after Georgina’s future.

  But to secure that future I would have to crawl abjectly to Jennifer Pallavicini. Otherwise I was trapped by the short and curlies.

  Unless, of course, Sir Oliver was right and I was being unfair in my judgment of Elizabeth. That was the last straw of hope I could cling to, and if that straw failed me then I would have to eat humble pie. I turned towards Westminster for the last time. It was late, fully dark, and I was soaked to the skin, so I phoned an old girlfriend and asked if I could have a bed for the night. She agreed, though she didn’t offer her own bed, but I hadn’t expected her to, because nothing was going right these days. Nothing.

  In the morning I went to Gloucestershire. During the night I had half persuaded myself that Elizabeth was indeed doing the decent thing, and that I had been blinded to her decency by my own unreasonable dislike of her. It was nonsense, I told myself, to think that Elizabeth could cheat the trustees. She would need to satisfy them that she could provide Georgina with proper care and living-quarters, and so, by the time I caught the train, I was more than half convinced that my troubles would soon be over. Georgina would have a safe haven, and I would be free to return to my life and Sunflower.

  Jennifer Pallavicini had called me uncaring and selfish. She was wrong about the first. I cared for Georgina; it was simply that, when Jennifer Pallavicini confronted me in Horta, I had been unwilling to dance to her insistent tune. Selfish? I thought about that as I stood in the crowded train going from London to the Cotswolds. Yes, I thought, she was probably right. I was selfish. I had always done what I wanted. I’d worked for it, if welding steel hulls in some humid tropical hell hole was called work, but I had still pursued my own desires. Yet not, I decided, to the detriment of others. I had never betrayed anyone to get what I wanted. I’d fought a few, but it takes two to fight.

  So the Pallavicini, I decided, did not understand me half as well as she believed. She had believed that I would need her assistance to settle Georgina’s future, but now I was proving that I could look after my sister without Sir Leon’s help. I would do it quickly, then take myself back to Sunflower and the open sea.

  I caught a bus from the station to Elizabeth’s village, then walked a lane between dry-stone walls to where the drive led to Lord Tredgarth’s farm. A big sign on the gate said ‘Entrance to Perilly House and Equestrian Centre Only. Private. No Trespassing’, while another sign ordered tradesmen to use the entrance on the Gloucester road. I decided I wasn’t a tradesman and pushed open the tall wrought-iron gates. The sun was trying to break through the clouds as I walked between the stumps of trees killed by Dutch elm disease. To my right was a thistle-rich paddock where a few fat ponies grazed between low jumps made from painted oil drums and striped poles. Elizabeth’s ‘Equestrian Centre’ was really a scabby riding-school which catered to the fat children of middle-class mothers who liked to boast they were acquainted with the Lady Elizabeth Tredgarth. It was a toss up which Elizabeth hated the most: the mothers or their children. She’d never had children herself, which I considered a blessing to the unborn.

  The grandly named Perilly House was really just a large farmhouse. It was a very pleasant farmhouse built of Cotswold stone, with a big central gable and two large wings. Roses grew about the front door which had been tricked out with a white Georgian portico and an antique brass bell-pull.

  A nervous cleaning woman answered the bell and told me her ladyship was not at home. Her ladyship had gone to a hospital charity committee meeting in Cirencester, which answer, despite my attempts to convince myself that Elizabeth was behaving well, triggered a rush of uncharitable thoughts. I imagined Elizabeth earning every brownie point she could so long as she saw Georgina’s trust fund in her sights. I imagined she would suddenly be active on the hospital charity, and the mental health fund-raising committee and even the flower rota at the parish church. “But his lordship’s at home,” the cleaning lady volunteered.

  “Would you tell him John Rossendale’s here?”

  “Is it business, sir?” She had clearly been trained to be wary of all strange visitors.

  “No.” I was about to say I was a friend, but decided that would stretch the truth too far. “It’s a private matter.”

  The woman looked dubious, but seemed reassured that I was not in a suit, which meant I was probably not serving a writ or otherwise adding to Peter Tredgarth’s troubles. “He’s at the camp, sir.”

  I knew where that was. In the early days of my sister’s marriage, when Peter and I had still been friends, I had been a frequent visitor to Perilly, and I remembered the old camp which had been hastily built in the war to house Italian prisoners doing farm work on the surrounding estates. By the time I, first saw the camp it was already derelict. At one time Peter had thought to turn the old wooden huts into a chicken farm, but in the end he had done nothing and the timber had rotted away and the undergrowth had all but hidden the concrete foundations.

  I walked down a tractor-rutted path, past a spinney of alders, then turned alongside the stream which would lead me to the low hill where the camp had been built. I saw Peter Tredgarth standing beside the stream, staring gloomily at the water. He had a shotgun under his arm, making him look uncommonly like a man contemplating the benefits of suicide. He jerked guiltily when I called his name, then stared with surprise as he recognised me. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. I could hardly expect him to be glad to see me after our last meeting in the Channel Islands.

  “I’ve come to see you. And Elizabeth, of course, but I gather she’s not at home?”

  “She never is, these days. I sometimes forget what she looks like.” He peered at me, evidently trying to decide whether to be grudgingly polite or dismissiyely nasty. He didn’t have the guts to be nasty, so offered me a grunt of welcome instead. “D’you see any heron?”

  I looked up and down the stream. “No heron, Peter.”

  “One of the labourers told me he saw a nesting couple up by the weir. Thought I’d shoot them.”

  “Aren’t they a protected species?” I teased him.

  “Bad for the fishing, you see. Bloody bad. Best thing to do is shoot them.” He broke the gun and took out the cartridges.

  “Why don’t you have a water-bailiff to look after the fishing?” I asked.

  “I did. Retired sergeant from my regiment. Nice chap, but I couldn’t afford to pay him.” He looked unhappily at his water, which was choking with weeds. “Needs a bit of work, eh?”

  “A bit.”

  “Must get down to it one day. You can get a lot for the fishing rights these days. And it’s good water, you know! No damn fish farms filling it up with trout-shit.”

  “Why don’t you build your own fish farm,” I asked him, “and pollute it yourself?”

  “I tried that, John, but they wouldn’t give me planning permission. Bastards. They’ll let some upstart grocer build a brick bungalow on a beauty spot, but they won’t let a landowner make a decent living. I should have bribed them, of course, but I couldn’t afford their fees.” He frowned at me, seemingly puzzled by my unexpected visit. “If I were you I wouldn’t be here when Elizabeth gets back. She had a telephone call from her lawyer chappie yesterday. The one in London? You must know who I mean. He lunched here last week and scoffed the best part of a brisket. Anyway, Elizabeth’s not exactly happy with you. Livid, in fact. Shouldn’t be talking to you myself, but…” He could not think quite why he was talking to me, so his voice tailed away.

  “You don’t have Elizabeth’s capacity to hate?” I suggested.

  “Yours is a ghastly family,” he said. “Always squabbling.”

  “And yours isn’t?”

  “They’re pretty ghastly too,” he admitted. Peter Tredgarth is big and heavy, with a permanently worried expression. He had not always been like that. When I first introduced him to Eliza
beth he had been a trim Guards officer, lively and quick, who used to sail the Channel with me. He had long since given up sailing and was now weighed down with the world’s griefs. “I thought you’d gone back to sea?” he said irritably.

  “I did. I came back.”

  “Bloody silly of you. If I was you, I’d stay out there. That’s what I should have done. Gone off and stayed away.” He fell silent and, for a moment, neither of us could find anything to say.

  “I hear you were up at the camp?” I said to fill the silence.

  He gave me a fierce look. “Did you drive here?”

  “I caught a bus from the station, then walked.”

  “I don’t think I’ve been on a bus since I was at prep school.” He grimaced, either at the memory, or as he tried to decide what to do with my unwelcome presence. “Tell you what I’ll do,” he said at last, “I’ll drive you to the station. That way she won’t find you on the premises, and I won’t tell her you’ve visited. We can stop for a bite of lunch on the way. I know a decent little pub which does a good midday meal. Wait here!”

  He didn’t let me respond, but just turned away and began walking towards the tree-fringed hill where the camp lay. I started after him. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Wait!” He turned on me angrily, then, as if to explain his rudeness, tossed me the gun and its two cartridges. “Keep an eye out for the heron, there’s a good chap.”

  I waited. The two heron flew past me. I ignored them. Instead I watched Peter plod up the hill and disappear into the undergrowth beyond the trees. There was a pause, then his mud-stained Land Rover appeared and bounced down the slope towards me.

  “See the heron?” he asked as he braked beside me.

  “Not a sign, Peter.” I climbed into the passenger seat and pushed the gun into the back.

  “Steak and kidney pie and a decent pint, eh?” Peter was suddenly very jocular.

  I put my hand over the gear lever to stop him driving away. “I don’t want to go to the pub yet, Peter. I’ve come here to see what preparations you’re making for Georgina. If I approve of them, then I won’t oppose Elizabeth and she can get her claws on Georgina’s money. So why don’t I just go up to the house and wait for Elizabeth?”

  He stared at me, biting a strand of his moustache. “Georgina?” he finally said.

  “Georgina,” I confirmed.

  “You’re worried about her?” He seemed astonished at the thought.

  “Of course I’m worried about her.”

  “And you think Elizabeth’s going to cheat on the trust fund?”

  “It occurred to me, yes,” I said bluntly.

  For a few seconds I thought he was going to throw me out of the vehicle for insulting his wife, but instead he just pushed my hand away from the gear lever and crashed it into first. “Right!” He spoke angrily and decisively. “You’ve asked for it, so you’ll damn well get it. Operation Georgina.” We lurched forward, turned on to the rutted track, and accelerated up towards the farm. “Elizabeth won’t take kindly to you poking about the place, but Georgina’s your sister, so why the hell shouldn’t you see where she’s going to live?” He laughed, but at what I could not tell. He drove furiously. We went past the house, past the farmyard, and up a track edged with blackberry bushes. At the end of the track, and facing on to a quiet country lane, was a pretty stone cottage. Building work was evident from the scaffolding which reached up to the chimney and from the pile of plumber’s junk that lay outside the door, but no builders were actually visible.

  “Primrose Cottage,” Peter Tredgarth announced as he stamped on the Land Rover’s brakes. “A horrible name, but it has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, living room, walled garden at the rear, and one garage. Central heating is being installed. A perfect residence, you will agree, for one loony sister and her live-in nurse?”

  “Perfect,” I agreed. I was astonished and pleased. I might have persuaded myself that Elizabeth was going to do the decent thing, but I had not really believed it. Yet Primrose Cottage was indeed perfect. It offered privacy and comfort, as well as restfulness. I felt my worries dropping away. I would be free again.

  “The live-in nurse” – Peter had left the motor running – “will be hired from an agency in Cheltenham. The agency specialises in cases like Georgina’s. Naturally the woman will have to be given time off, so the agency will supply weekend cover and supplementary nursing care for two nights a week as part of the contract price.” His voice became heavy with sarcasm. “Does that meet with your approval?”

  “I think it sounds marvellous, Peter,” I said warmly.

  He sneered at the humility in my voice. “Elizabeth has already shown the cottage to the trustees, and they agree with you. They’ve also interviewed the agency and found them entirely satisfactory.”

  “Elizabeth’s been wonderful,” I ate more humble pie, “and I apologise for doubting her.”

  He laughed, his victory over me complete. “You’ve got a nerve, John.” He took a silver flask from a pocket of his tweed jacket, unscrewed its cap, and took a long pull. He suddenly looked very morose. “And why the hell would you care about Georgina?”

  “I just do.”

  “You care about her money,” he said savagely, “but you won’t get it, John. You abdicated, you gave up, you bottled out, you pissed off to sea, and you probably screwed the family by nicking their bloody picture as well.” He began to laugh. I’d never realised before this moment that he was an alcoholic. He’d probably been drinking before I met him, and he would probably be drinking for the rest of the day. “Did you steal that picture?” he asked me suddenly.

  “No.”

  “She says you did. She says she’s met someone who helped you do it. You’re a fool, John. I suppose you threw the money away?”

  “I didn’t steal the picture, Peter.”

  He ignored that. “It was left to Elizabeth in your mother’s will.”

  “I know.”

  “And it ought to go to her,” he said heavily as though making a point I might not have considered before. “She’s got plans for the money, you see.”

  “Plans?”

  “Buy Stowey back. Run a proper equestrian centre.” He took a pull on the flask, then chuckled. “I think she imagines the Queen coming down to admire the horses, but the point of it is, John, that Elizabeth wants to use the money. She wants to restore the family’s position in society! You don’t, do you? All you want to do is arse around in a boat! If you had any decency at all you’d tell her where the picture is, then disappear.”

  “I don’t know where it is, Peter.” I paused. “Who told her I’d stolen it?”

  “Buggered if I know.” Nor did he care; it was enough that he shared Elizabeth’s belief in my guilt. He peered at his watch. “She might come home for lunch, so you’d best leave.” He leaned across me to open the door. “Go to the end of the lane and you can catch a bus at the crossroads.”

  “No pub lunch?” I asked him.

  “Out,” he ordered me. It was hard to believe we had once been friends. Now, whatever his unhappiness, he was on his wife’s side in our family’s civil war.

  I climbed out and slammed the Land Rover’s door.

  “And don’t tell her I’ve spoken to you!” Lord Tredgarth shouted at me.

  “I won’t.”

  He took another pull at his flask, then viciously wrenched the steering wheel to slew the Land Rover back towards the farm. I had to jump fast to save myself from being side-swiped by the skidding vehicle. Its rear wheels spattered me with mud as he drove away.

  I waited till he had disappeared then walked up the path to Primrose Cottage. The new front door had still not been fitted with a lock, so I pushed into the big living room which was littered with builders’ scraps. The walls were newly painted. A wood stove had been fitted in the old hearth. It was a lovely cottage, its southern windows facing across the water meadows. I wandered into the kitchen where a new double sink had been fitted. There
was a pile of builders’ brochures and invoices on the draining board. I sifted idly through them. Only one of the brochures was not about building materials, but was an invitation from a firm which specialised in letting holiday cottages: ‘Do you have an unused farm cottage? Let us turn your empty property into profit!’

  I stared through the window. I could see the camp hill across the valley. Why had Peter not wanted me to walk to the Land-rover with him? I tried to dismiss the nagging worry. I wanted to walk away, to go to the crossroads and catch my bus, then to take Sunflower to the limitless freedom of the seas, but there was something wrong here. I looked down at the holiday cottage brochure. Was Elizabeth planning to renovate Primrose Cottage at the expense of Georgina’s fund, then let it to summer visitors?

  I leafed through the stained and crumpled paperwork on the draining board. One sheet of paper was a carbon copy of an estimate from a plumbing firm. It was a hefty estimate, covering the installation of a new hot water tank, a central heating boiler, a shower room, and, at the very bottom, for the provision of a stand-pipe and two cold water connections to caravans. The estimate had evidently been successful, for the plumbers were using it as a checklist for work completed. I saw the stand-pipe had already been finished.

  I swore very softly, not really believing what I was suspecting, but knowing that I would have to find out for myself. And knowing, too, that if I was right, then my troubles were only just beginning.

  I didn’t cross Peter’s land. Instead I walked a mile up the lane, turned south on to the Gloucester road and crossed the stream by the new bridge. Trucks carrying chipboard and frozen chickens thundered past me. At the top of the hill there was a layby where a glum family picnicked within yards of the growling lorries. I walked past them and climbed over the gate on to Peter’s property. The mud track had been newly used. I followed it a hundred yards through the screen of dark trees, then through the tangled undergrowth to where a clearing had been hacked out in the old camp.