Days Without Number (2 page)

Forty minutes or so had passed by the time Nick went down again and a dozen or more of the fabled locals were now installed in the back bar, swapping jokes and gossip. Some of them he dimly recognized and they him. It soon became clear that Irene had briefed them about his visit and its ostensible reason: the party at Trennor. He was made to feel welcome and stood drinks like one of the crowd. He did more smiling and small-talking over the next few hours than he normally spread over a month, till his jaw ached and a knot of tension in his stomach tightened into a ball of pain. Nobody asked him an obvious question: why not stay at Trennor, big enough to boast several empty bedrooms, including the one he had shared for so many years with his brother Basil, rather than squeeze in amidst Laura's fluffy rabbits and girl-band CDs? Which was just as well, because he could not have supplied an adequate answer. Irene was still holding out on him. Perhaps, he idly wondered during the third pint of Guinness that he regretted accepting, the locals already knew. Perhaps he was the only one who did not know. Then again, he thought, catching his sister's wary, warning glance through a whorl of somebody's cigarillo smoke, perhaps not.

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It was nearly midnight before the last of the customers had been steered out into the darkness and the barmaid sent home after some desultory clearing-up. Irene lit her first cigarette of the evening, poured Nick and herself double Glenmorangies and joined him at the table nearest to the flame-effect gas fire, the artfully wavering light from it flickering on a beaten copper surround and a token pair of flanking horse-brasses.

'They seem a good-hearted bunch,' he remarked of the departed carousers.

'Not too hard on you, then?' She gave him a sympathetic smile over the rim of her tumbler.

'No. They were all--'

'I mean the experience. You don't like crowds, do you? Especially when you're supposed to be one of them.'

'I get by.'

'Do you? I worry about you, all the way up there, alone and--'

'There's nothing to worry about.'

'There used to be.'

'But not any more.'

Seeming to take the hint, Irene changed the subject. 'Well, I'm glad you could make it.'

'Do you think Andrew will be?'

'Of course. Although . . .'

'He won't necessarily show it.'

'You know what he's like. And he's more like it than ever, let me tell you.'

'Is a surprise appearance by his kid brother such a good idea, then?'

'We are a family, Nick. It can't be a bad idea to get together. Besides . . .'

'You haven't dragged me down here just for the benefit of the birthday boy.'

'No.' She took a long draw on her cigarette. 'There's Dad too, of course.'

'Does he know I'm showing up on Sunday?'

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'No. We thought we'd . . . surprise both of them.'

'WeT

'Anna and me.'

'What about Basil?'

'He knows what's going on.'

Since Basil had been living with their sister Anna for some time, that, Nick assumed, was more or less inevitable. 'Lucky him.'

Irene sighed. 'All right. Time to come clean. You haven't seen Dad in over a year. Well, he's gone down quite a lot lately. He's become . . . frail, I suppose you'd call it. I remember him as such a big man. Now he's . . . shrunken.'

'He is eighty-four years old.'

'And showing it. If Mum was still alive, it might be different. As it is, I don't see how he can stay at Trennor, rattling around that house on his own.'

'What about Pru?' Even as he mentioned his parents' long serving cleaning lady, Nick calculated that she could hardly be far off eighty-four herself. 'Doesn't she keep an eye on him?'

'As far as her cataracts allow, yes. But she's not of much practical use any more. We have to face facts.'

'You mean Dad has to face them.'

There's a place at Tavistock that Anna reckons would be ideal for him. Gorton Lodge.'

Anna being a nurse-cum-administrator at a residential home in Plymouth, she was, Nick supposed, qualified to judge in such matters. Still, there seemed to be an element of fence-rushing about it all. He winced at the unaccustomed sensation of sympathy for his father.

'She can tell you about it tomorrow night. She wants you to go over there for dinner. But Gorton Lodge is nice, believe me. The best money can buy round here.'

'That's something I--' Nick broke off. A thought had come to him, spirited up by mention of the word money. Who was going to pay Gorton Lodge's fees? His grandfather's inheritance had not survived to the next generation. And his father had always let it be known that an academic's salary 18

not to mention five children - left him with little to provide for his old age. Nor were any of those children exactly coining it in. The only obvious source of funds was Trennor itself. But that was their inheritance. Why were Nick's brothers and sisters suddenly so eager to put it towards a comfortable dotage for their father? It was laudable, in a way, but it was also deeply uncharacteristic. 'The house would have to be sold, Irene.'

'Of course.'

'And if Dad lives another ten years or more, even five . . .'

'It won't make any difference.'

'No difference? That doesn't make sense. What's Trennor worth? Three hundred thousand? Three fifty at most.'

'On the open market, you're probably right.'

'What other market is there?'

The closed kind. Someone's offered Dad half a million.'

Nick stared at his sister in astonishment. 'Half a millionT

'That's right. Five hundred thousand pounds. Cash on the table.'

'But. . . Dad hasn't put it up for sale.'

'Hence the premium.'

'Some premium.'

'Currently lodged in a lawyer's suspense account to Baskcomb's satisfaction.'

Baskcomb was the family's solicitor, just as his father had been - and his father before him. The hopeful buyer was evidently serious. 'Who is this someone?'

'Name of Tantris. I know nothing about him. Sounds foreign. But then so do we. None of us has met him. He works through intermediaries.'

'Why does he want the place?'

'Does it matter?'

'It might. What does Dad say?'

'He says "no deal".'

That's that, then.'

'Not if we talk him round. Show a united front.'

'So that's why I'm here.'

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'Not really.' Irene looked reproachfully at him, as if disappointed by the suggestion that this was all there was to it. 'I thought you had a right to know. You stand to benefit along with the rest of us. Or lose, of course, if we throw Mr Tantris's money back at him.'

'It's Dad who'd be doing the throwing. And the benefit's questionable. It would just take Gorton Lodge that bit longer to work their way through the money. As far as I can--'

'Mr Tantris will pay the fees.'

For the second time that night, Nick stared at his sister in astonishment. 'WhatT

'Mr Tantris will pay. Some kind of trust fund. Legally watertight, according to Baskcomb.'

'Why would he be willing to do that?'

'To seal the deal.'

'But--'

'And to overcome our objections, of course. I imagine it's a ploy to get us on his side. I have no illusions about his motives.'

'But what are his motives? Why does he want Trennor so badly?'

Irene shrugged. 'Like I said, does it really matter?'

She was being evasive once too often. Nick leaned forward across the table towards her. 'Do you know, Irene?'

She devoted several seconds to stubbing out her cigarette, then said, 'Yes. We all do.'

'Except me.'

'Quite.'

'Well?' He did not bother to hide his irritation at having to prompt her.

'It's a little . . . unusual.'

'I'll bet.'

'Surprising, even.'

'Surprise me, then.'

'Actually . . .' She smiled appeasingly at him. T'm going to leave that to someone much better qualified than I am.'

'Oh yes. And who might that be?'

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'Mr Tantris's assistant, Ms Hartley, wants to meet you and explain the situation. She'd much prefer it came from her first, and, frankly, so would I. She'll be able to answer all your questions.'

'She'd prefer it? She knows about me, does she?'

'She knows of you. I made it clear to her that your views would have to be taken into account. And she's anxious to ensure they are.'

'How very considerate of her.'

'Sarcasm.' Irene's smile broadened. 'That's a good sign, Nick.'

'What of?'

'Of rejoining the human race.' She looked at him with all her old sisterly fondness, which he felt unable either to match or to reject. 'It's where you belong.'

'When have you arranged for me to meet Ms Hartley?' he responded, clutching at practicalities.

'Tomorrow at noon.'

'Here?'

'No. St Neot. At the village church.'

"St NeotT

'It's about halfway between Liskeard and Bodmin.'

'I know where it is, for God's sake. What I don't know is why I should have to go all the way over there to meet this woman.'

'No. But you will when you get there.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'It's supposed to mean that Ms Hartley will explain everything.' Irene drained her glass. 'Which is why I'm going to say goodnight.'

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CHAPTER TWO

Trying to persuade Irene to tell him something she was determined not to was a waste of energy, as Nick well knew from previous, indeed lifelong, experience. He derived some small satisfaction when he woke the next morning from not having made the attempt. He had at least avoided that mistake. But there was another mistake he had not avoided and was only now paying for. He had drunk more than he was used to, far more. And he regretted the second Glenmorangie, polished off after Irene had gone to bed, with every wincing movement of his head.

His customary Saturday morning run was thus more of a torment than a tonic. At least the weather was kind to him grey, still and bracingly chill. He headed south, out past Saltash School and back along the path beside the railway line. He wound down afterwards on Town Quay, watching the swans and the seagulls and a graceful flight of geese across the Plymouth skyline. The headache was no better - worse, if anything. But at least he had atoned in some measure for inflicting it upon himself.

The aroma of frying bacon reached him as he approached the Old Ferry, an aroma which, to his surprise, he found distinctly alluring. Crispy bacon and scrambled eggs turned out to be Irene's patent hangover cure. Even more surprisingly, it

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worked. After topping up his cholesterol and caffeine levels and soaking in the bath, he felt more like the reasonably fit and relatively clear-thinking person he was supposed to be.

By eleven o'clock, he was on the road - an hour away from an explanation that was already overdue.

Nick could not remember whether he had ever visited St Neot before. It was one of several villages on the southern fringe of Bodmin Moor that family excursions from Trennor had probably taken him to in his childhood or adolescence. An ice-cream stop, perhaps? He could not say for sure. Nor were any specific memories jogged as he drove into it along a curving, wooded road up the Loveny valley. It looked a pretty place, though, smoke climbing lazily from the cottage chimneys beneath the gently sloping foothills of the Moor.

The church stood on the highest ground of the village, four-square yet elegant, a weathered granite testament to the skills of its centuries-dead builders. Nick pulled up beneath the churchyard wall at its western end, where parking was shared with the scarcely less venerable London Inn. The pub appeared to be open, but there was little sign of trade this early. The church clock showed the time as ten minutes short of noon. He was early.

But so was someone else. He had pulled in beside a small red Peugeot. As he climbed out of his car, so did the driver of the Peugeot.

She was a short, slim woman dressed in jeans, sweater and sheepskin coat, dark curly hair framing a pale, serious face. Nut-brown eyes regarded him solemnly through small, gold framed glasses. 'Mr Paleologus?' she asked, with the barest hint of a Midlands accent.

'Yes. Ms Hartley?'

'The same.' They shook hands, Elspeth Hartley with a surprisingly strong grip. All in all, she was not living up to his expectations of PA - if that was what she was - to a millionaire - if that was what he was. 'Glad you could make it.'

'My sister didn't leave me much choice in the matter.'

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She raised her eyebrows slightly at that. 'How much do you know?'

'I know your boss wants to buy Trennor. Virtually at any price, apparently. And I believe you're going to tell me why.'

'Actually, he's not my boss. More patron, really.'

'You're not his assistant?'

'I'm an art historian. Mr Tantris subsidizes my researches at Bristol University. But you're right in a sense. I do seem to have turned into his assistant. Kind of, anyway. The real one's too busy with high finance to come down here.'

'Down from where?'

'London. New York. Zurich.' She smiled, instantly persuading Nick that it was something she should do as often as possible. 'The location varies.'

'And Mr Tantris? What's his location?'

'Monaco, so I'm told. But I've never actually met him. I'm just grateful to him for funding my work. It's led me in some unexpected directions. I certainly never expected to come across descendants of the Byzantine emperors in the course of it, for instance.'

'Our lineage doesn't bear much scrutiny.'

'That's not what your father said. Shortly before he showed me the door.'

'Well, it's his door.'

'I know. But it's not as if Mr Tantris wants to pull Trennor down and build twelve executive houses on the site, is it?'

'Isn't it?'

'All right.' She smiled again. T'd better get to why we're here, hadn't I?'

'Seems a good idea.'

'Come into the church. Then you'll understand.'

Taking that on trust, Nick followed her in through the churchyard gate and round to the south door, near which were clustered amidst the gravestones the worn uprights of several Celtic crosses.