The Long Gallery, Chapter Ten & Eleven

Chapter Ten

Jeffries bore the look of a disgruntled man; pushing his diary away as though it carried some infectious disease, he said, ‘So gentlemen, the maintenance of Harvest Hall Estate has been awarded to an agency. I need scarcely tell you this is unfortunate news.’

He locked his fingers together, pressing them tightly to his chest. He sat at the head of a highly polished rectangular table, within the oak-panelled private chamber of the Spa Club. He was in the company of four club members. They were Samuel Biggins, Anthony Daly, Denis Wroughton and Peter Parkinson. Glancing at each in turn, he said, ‘I believe the proprietor of the agency concerned to be associated with this club.’

‘Well then, why the air of doom and gloom? This sounds a significant step in our favour.’ It was Biggins who spoke; a short, balding company director of fifty plus years. Looking enthusiastically about him, he said, ‘All we need do is negotiate. This fellow needn’t know the finer …’

‘There is a problem,’ Jeffries broke in, rising from his chair and pacing to a sash window. He stood shuffling his hands in his pockets, looking out. His breath frosted the window as he said, ‘The proprietor is a certain Frobisher-French – a fringe member, you may not be familiar with him. At any rate, I believe his interests might be similar to ours – I believe he knows something exists within the Gallery.’

‘Good heavens man.’ Public schoolmaster Wroughton threw a suspicious glance around the room. ‘Are you saying he knows what’s hidden there? How can this be, unless one of us has …’

‘No, no.’ Jeffries did an about turn, facing the four, stomach thrust out, hands still inside his trousers. ‘I said I believe he knows something exists. Frobisher-French, I believe, is something of an opportunist – a middle-class conman if you like. The passing of Harvest Hall to Daisy Truman is hardly classified information. I’ll vouch he senses something without knowing or understanding what it is. Nonetheless, it does present a substantial obstacle.’

‘How has this come to light, might I ask?’ Accountant Timothy Daly furrowed his brow, removed his spectacles and placed them carefully upon the table.

‘I have the Hall under close scrutiny, gentlemen, and will continue to do so. What lies within is far too valuable, not to, as we all know. Thus, nothing much happens without my knowledge. It is doubly unfortunate that Miss Truman proves so obstinate – steadfastly refusing to employ staff who could be deemed within our capability to control – she will not name the company she has contracted, but my information strongly suggests Frobisher-French.’

Jeffries caught the questioning glance of psychologist Parkinson. ‘Yes, Peter?’

‘I was merely going to ask the obvious, such as what do we do now?’

Jeffries circled the table, coming to a stop behind the tall, sandy-haired Parkinson. He drew breath. ‘As I say, Frobisher-French socialises with the fringe elements of our club – thus, he would smell a rat at the slightest move we make to manoeuvre ourselves into a position where we have access inside the Hall. And so, I might add, would Miss Truman, though for a different reason – she is a headstrong young woman who would accept no presence other than that she has delegated. However, you may be sure that I will monitor the situation closely. Moreover, I do believe Frobisher-French’s company will only be awarded an interim contract. Gentlemen, we need to ensure that it goes no further. I have a plan.’ Jeffries returned to his seat and from his case drew out a file.

 

 

 

Chapter Eleven

    

William reached the brow of the hill and checking his mirror, pulled across the road, bringing his car to a halt in a lay-by outside a terrace of cottages. The road was narrow, twisting and thickly wooded, but William ushered Jane across to a clearing between the trees.

Below lay Harvest Hall, basking in warm sunlight; to its south and west folds of green meadow rolled down towards the country house, while, to the east, lay forest, fanning out to encroach upon its northern edge.

‘So this is it.’ Jane Lafarge directed her gaze away from William, focusing on the scene for what seemed several minutes. ‘Idyllic setting; such an impressive backdrop.’

‘You think so?’ William’s smooth cheek dimpled – a half smile. ‘As close as we’re going to get I’m afraid, now that Daisy owns the Hall.’

‘There it is again, humble acceptance,’ Jane said, her eyes remaining locked on the scene below. ‘Although secretly, I suspect you’re disgruntled at being passed over for the Hall …’

‘Not at all,’ William fired back, his contracting brows emphasising his irritation, ‘Jane will you let it drop? First of all I’m supposed to have this affection for Daisy, and now the Hall. And as for secrets, I have none as far as you’re concerned.’ William sniffed, drew breath, ‘Well, I’ve shown it to you in all its grandeur below, driven an hour and a half to get here, perhaps now you’ll be satisfied, though I can see in your eyes there’s more.’

Jane said nothing, merely pressing her body closer to the hedge as a car roared past. Her stare continued to be directed down the hill, at Harvest Hall.

William sighed, bowed and slipped his arm around her waist. ‘You seem in a pensive mood today, darling.’

Jane’s eyes hardened; turning to him she complained, ‘You’ve told me precious little about that great big place and all the history which must go with it. I practically had to beg to get you to come out here. It’s as though the place is wrapped in your own personal cloak of mystery. Your grandfather for instance – what became of him?’

‘I saw less of him, after Father died.’ William exhaled through his nose. ‘You understand that it’s not the easiest place to visit when you’re young and reliant on others. Let’s just say he passed away,’ William said quietly, transferring his arm to Jane’s shoulder as he looked down on the Hall.

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ Jane’s violet eyed stare remained on him. ‘Okay, this is obviously a taboo subject as far as you’re concerned.’

‘I’ll tell you, but not right now.’ William’s reply had been curt and his gaze vacant, though remaining fixed on the Hall.

‘Very well.’ Jane shrugged, freed herself from his arm. ‘Although for some reason you seem unwilling to share any memories of the place with me.’

If Jane was expecting a reply from her fiancé, none was forthcoming. And that fact paved the way for an uncomfortable silence which accompanied their return to London.

***

Shortly after the couple’s departure, Daisy arrived at Harvest Hall, and within a few minutes Frobisher-French followed.

‘Well, here it is then, dear lady – our document containing a full account of our services, plus of course, our fees.’

‘Of course.’ Daisy Truman, unsmiling, received the envelope from Frobisher-French’s outstretched hand and slit it open. ‘You didn’t take long drawing this up, or arriving here with it for that matter. I’ve barely got in.’ Looking up from her study desk, she said, ‘And please refrain from addressing me as “dear lady,” I find all that crap condescending.’

‘Of course, madam.’ French fingered his dark suit, lowered his long, slim frame towards her. ‘Merely an expression of politeness. And may I also say that my speed at preparing the document and delivering it to you is merely a sign of efficiency.”

‘We’ll, see about that, won’t we?’ Daisy held Frobisher-French’s gaze and added, ‘Miss Truman will serve us fine.’ Daisy ran her eyes over the four page document, all the while feeling Frobisher French’s towering presence alongside her. She regretted not asking him to wait in a separate room. ‘You understand I shall only sign to an initial three month period – I can find no mention of that here.’

‘As you will see, Miss Truman, our charges are calculated monthly.’ French stooped over Daisy, his finger touching the paper. ‘During the first year, you are free to dispense with our services at any time.’

‘Well, let’s hope I don’t have to.’ Daisy sighed, even the study seemed huge and having this man looming over her didn’t help. It was going to take some time adjusting – being Lady of the Manor, so to speak.

‘As agreed,’ French said cordially, ‘we will supply two staff inside the Hall and two outside, on a Monday to Friday basis, thus allowing you privacy at weekends. The staff will have impeccable references, of course, and …’

‘Stop there, please, Mr. Frobisher-French.’ Daisy sat back in the elegant Queen Anne chair she had positioned behind the desk. ‘Impeccable references they may well have, but I shall need to see them personally before allowing them to work within my house and grounds.’

French’s smile waned, it seemed to imply that she was testing his patience. ‘Miss Truman, it is normal for our clients to take us at our word, but if you seek prior introduction, I will hasten to arrange it.’

Daisy smiled, the corners of her mouth raised angelically. ‘Spiffing. That’s the sort of adjective one uses in these places, isn’t it?’

French’s complexion developed an autumnal look. ‘When would you like the introduction? I can arrange …’

‘This afternoon would be fine – if you would arrange it. And then if they meet with my approval, I’ll sign on the dotted line as they say.’

French fingered his brow; Daisy’s lively eyes following his motions. ‘I’ll certainly endeavour to comply with your request, Miss Truman, though it is somewhat short notice.’

Daisy rose to her feet, pausing at the library door. ‘I’m a working girl, Mr Frobisher-French. I don’t have oodles of time at my disposal – unlike some of your other clients, I would venture.’

‘Quite.’ French bowed his head and took his leave, his super-smooth exterior somewhat ruffled, Daisy thought.

She saw French out, and with a deep breath drawing the Hall’s musty air into her lungs, commenced a stroll through its interior. Passing through the stately main drawing room with her late uncle’s portrait dominating the wall above the fireplace, she contemplated her future.

Tomorrow would see their move into the Hall against the broody Adam’s advice, and in the face of Jeffries’ attempts to meddle in her affairs. Why he was so intent on doing so was beyond her, but he would learn, as indeed would everyone else, that she was capable of charting her own destiny. In truth, Daisy didn’t reckon on outside help in the shape of Frobisher-French’s Anchor Investments lasting the year.

Her own experience of managing the nature reserve would provide a solid base for overall running of the Estate and closer personal involvement in day-to-day activities than perhaps the management company expected would complete her education.

Could this have been the reason why Uncle had passed over William and his absent sister Clarissa, leaving the Hall in her hands? Or was it more to do with the untimely death of her father and the subsequent effects it seemed to have on Uncle Joshua?

But thinking about Clarissa, where was she? What had happened to her? She seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Daisy tried to harp back to when she’d last seen her, but her memories just seemed to evaporate amongst the mists of time. In any case, however, communication with William’s side of the family had become markedly thin over recent years. Perhaps there was no great surprise in her inability to recall.

Daisy climbed the broad staircase to the Gallery, for so long a meeting place of Uncle and his friends. And again memories of that day, when she’d run inside through fear of the stone statues in the magic garden came back to haunt her. Her father and uncle, locked in bitter, heated argument; father pinned against the wall, his face ashen through the gloom, and then those words she couldn’t recall.

The same chairs still lined the walls of the gallery, fine gilt-edged and high backed, placed perhaps twenty feet apart, and between them, the doors that led to the anti-chambers and bedrooms of the old house.

And then something made her start – at the gallery’s western end, a figure – gaunt and grey. Its face bore a mouth so wide it seemed a crater between its cheeks, almost like a Halloween joke – only this was no Halloween and no joke. It creased into a smile, or perhaps a leer or sneer, and tiny fissures seemed to open in every wrinkle from forehead to neck. Daisy’s heart, normally as steady and regular as any, sped up and fluttered. She shook her head, trying to rattle some logic into it, to make sense of what she’d seen. She closed her eyes for a split second, and then when she re-opened them there was nothing – nothing at all.

It had all been her stupid imagination – just like the stone statues – she might have felt grown up, but here was a stark introduction to reality.

Her confidence sank like a badly baked cake.

***

Daisy was still suffering the effects to her confidence when Frobisher-French arrived early that afternoon. Two cars had progressed down the arced drive and were now parked in the

crescent at the western wing. French had four others in his company and duly introduced them. There were two estate workers, Robert and Martin, and two in-house caretakers – Michelle Poynton, a short, sturdy middle-aged woman and Sue Atkinson, a younger, lithe brunette.

Despite Daisy’s lingering reservations, first impressions were favourable, it had to be said, and that being the case, the deal was sealed, along with arrangements for a party the following Saturday. Not an idea that Daisy would have gone along with had it not been for the enthusiasm of Alison and Penny.