‘Conveyancing?’ Lucy’s expression of bewilderment made him feel like Dracula asking her to pass the garlic. ‘Wouldn’t you like Sylvia to handle it?’
‘No need,’ he said with dignity. ‘I’m beginning to think I have hidden talents as a property lawyer.’
Lucy turned on her way out. ‘I’d feel safer having the Boston Strangler give me a neck massage!’
After she had shut the door, Harry studied Geoffrey Willatt’s letter. The problem which the Ambroses had raised seemed a simple one: the rear garden of the Graham-Browns’ house appeared to dog-leg around a couple of old horse chestnut trees. The plans with the deeds — which Harry had copied and attached to the contract — indicated that the trees fell inside the boundaries of the property. Actual observation, however, suggested the contrary and there was no fence, hedge or other dividing line at that spot to put the matter beyond doubt. It was the kind of discrepancy which would prove a fertile source of future dispute if not sorted out now.
Harry’s first instinct was to yawn, but after a moment he brightened. There was only one way to wrap the matter up with the speed which both buyers and sellers demanded.
He would have to pay Rosemary a visit.
It would need to be a surprise visit, too, given that he did not have her ex-directory number and that if the transaction was to proceed as promptly as required, he couldn’t afford to write her a letter or wait for her to telephone him. He took one look at the pile of correspondence plaintively hoping for attention and decided there was no time like the present — for calling on Rosemary Graham-Brown, that was, rather than getting stuck in to the tedium of deskwork. He buzzed Lucy and announced his intentions.
‘But what about…’
‘One has to prioritise,’ he said, recalling a bit of jargon from a practice management article he had once read in The Law Society’s Gazette. ‘This is a private-paying client, an urgent matter. Let Suzanne know I’ve gone out the back way.’ He didn’t relish braving the switchboard girl’s wrath again. Restored to good humour, he added, ‘I may be some time.’
The drive to Formby did not take long. It was a crisp afternoon and he felt excited at the prospect of seeing Rosemary again. Presumably her husband would now be at his office: there might be an opportunity for a chat over a cuppa once the business of the boundary was out of the way. Moreover, he would have the chance to satisfy his curiosity whilst enjoying her company.
Crow’s Nest House stood on a wooded slope, commanding a view of the Irish Sea. Set back from the road and reached via an unmade track which the council had never adopted, it conformed to the odd principle that the better the property, the worse the access. As his MG bumped from pothole to pothole he began to wish he had walked up from the main road. Rounding the last tree-lined corner, he passed through open wrought-iron entrance gates and took his first look at the home Stuart and Rosemary Graham-Brown were in such a hurry to sell.
For once Death Rowe’s eulogistic description in the property particulars coincided with reality. The house was a double-fronted building in white stucco with smart green shutters at every window. Koi carp swam in an ornamental pond; beyond the triple garage Harry could see a summer-house in the style of a Swiss chalet. The tranquillity of the place made it hard to believe that the city’s clamour was only a short drive away.
He parked and pressed the doorbell. Musical chimes sounded. Somewhere inside a small child began to bleat.
The crying startled him. He had expected Rosemary to be alone. And yet — of course! — the particulars had spoken of a nursery. He had not realised, however, that it was in active use; she had not mentioned a child. He felt a stab of dismay before the absurdity of his instinctive response dawned on him. If it was okay to fancy a married woman, why did it bother him that she was a mother too?
Unsure of himself, he stared at the door. Coming here had seemed a good idea; now he was having second thoughts. He stood there for a full minute before he pulled himself together and rang again. The child renewed its howl of protest but soon he heard approaching footsteps. He sensed someone studying him through the spyhole cut into the oak before at last the door was opened.
Rosemary was simply dressed, in white tee-shirt and scruffy jeans, and she had tied her hair back with an orange ribbon. Without the elegant clothes she’d worn when calling at the office, somehow she did not seem so unattainable.
‘Harry.’
Her tone, like her face, was questioning and lacked any trace of welcome. It was almost as if she found his unannounced arrival alarming.
‘Hello, Rosemary,’ he said, disconcerted. ‘There’s something I need to check with you.’
She glanced at her watch. When she spoke again, her sharpness startled him.
‘Couldn’t you have phoned?’
‘You told me you were ex-directory.’
She looked at him steadily. He could tell her mind was working rapidly, but to what purpose, he could not guess.
‘Of course. I’m sorry. It’s just — you’ve caught me at a bad time, that’s all. Won’t you come in?’
He followed her past a glass cabinet full of porcelain. He knew no more about objects d’art than he did about the law of corporate acquisitions, but he suspected that the insurance premium on the Graham-Browns’ household contents would be enough to finance the purchase of the whole of Fenwick Court, with something to spare. She led him into a living room larger than the average courtroom. Through a wall of picture windows he could see a paved area equipped with lighting and a barbecue. Herbaceous borders edged a lawn which was separated by a narrow stream from the rougher grassland stretching towards the horse chestnuts Mr and Mrs Ambrose were so anxious to own.
‘Take a seat,’ she said, motioning him towards a chesterfield covered with skilfully patchworked cushions. The clocks, paintings and bits of china dotted here and there were straight out of a Sotheby’s catalogue; enough to delight the choosiest of his burglar-clients.
‘I hope you’ve not come to break the news that there’s a hold-up on the sale,’ she said.
Lacking the make-up she’d worn on their previous encounters, her face was pale. He sensed that not far beneath the surface bubbled anxiety verging on desperation. Again he wondered why the Graham-Browns were so keen to get away from one of the smartest homes in north Merseyside.
‘A minor snag, that’s all. I’m confident we can sort it out.’
Her whole body relaxed visibly and her expression brightened. Ridiculously pleased that he could produce even this slight change in her emotions, Harry felt his heart beat a little faster. He launched into his explanation and was halfway through describing the problem raised by the Ambroses when, in another room, the child howled once more.
‘Oh God, don’t tell me the baby’s getting bored with the playpen,’ Rosemary muttered. She raised her voice and called out, ‘Coming!’
‘Boy or girl?’ he asked as she got up to do her duty.
‘Girl. And a little madam she certainly is.’
‘Called?’
‘Rainbow — if you can believe that.’
He groped for a diplomatic reply and finally managed, ‘Unusual.’
‘You could say that. Personally, I think she’ll suffer for it at school. But it wasn’t my idea.’
‘Stuart’s?’
‘Er … yes.’
The unseen Rainbow began to sob and Rosemary said quickly, ‘Excuse me a minute while I go and see what her ladyship wants.’
Whilst she was gone he absorbed his surroundings. Some of the antiques — the ebony-framed sampler dated 1762 and an extravagantly-carved grandfather clock — might be heirlooms. If so, he had no doubt that they came from Stuart’s side of the family. Nothing he had seen had made him revise his initial opinion that her roots were in the shabby Liverpool streets. Every now and then, she gave herself away: as with the barely concealed disdain for the ludicrous name her husband had foisted upon her daughter.