What Would Jane Austen Do?, page 3
‘And if I don’t want to live in…’ Maddy refrained from adding the words the back of beyond. ‘Coltringham, was it?’
‘Cotlington.’
‘Right. So, if I don’t want to live in Cotlington, what happens to the house?’
Mr Chapman consulted his papers although Maddy suspected he already knew the answer. ‘It would go to a Mrs Myra Hardcastle.’
‘Do you know who she is? Is she another relation?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
Maddy stared at her now cold tea. She had inherited a house, her money worries were over, probably for good, but she couldn’t sell the house, only live in it. Bugger.
‘How long do I have to make up my mind?’
‘It would be helpful if you could let me know by the date of the funeral. I can then put the wheels in motion.’
Chapter Three
The distance is nothing when one has motive.
Elizabeth Bennet, Pride and Prejudice
* * *
Despite feeling like she was ten years old again, Maddy was secretly pleased that her dad had offered to drive her to the funeral service. Aside from wishing to pay his respects – the official explanation – she suspected there was also a not inconsiderable degree of nosiness involved, as after the wake she was going to get a guided tour of Nigel’s house. Her house, she silently corrected herself.
The news of her inheritance had elicited great excitement in her immediate family and it seemed that—in some quarters at least—Nigel Shaw’s status as official family black sheep was being rapidly reconsidered if not rescinded. His erstwhile tarnished reputation was being buffed up by various aunts and uncles who, over the last week, had got in contact to make the appropriate sympathetic noises even though none of them actually knew anything about Nigel’s life over the last three decades. It amused Maddy enormously to see how everyone suddenly wanted to chat to her; she had often observed that popularity went hand-in-hand with an inheritance.
She hadn’t mentioned the details of the codicil to anyone in the family except her dad. Mum would fuss way too much. She had told Alice though, since she would be affected by whatever decision Maddy made, and therefore had a right to know. Everyone else could wait until she had made up her mind.
She might not have seen the house in person but she had already done a bit of searching online after being given the address by the solicitor. There were no pictures of the actual house, but the street views she had looked at were those of a typical English country village. There were certainly some beautiful cottages that looked lovely for a holiday but to live there on her own? Apart from the village store and a chemist’s, the nearest shop was in the next town, and she’d have to travel to Haxford for anything significant. Would she be bored in the countryside? Did takeaway places even deliver to Cotlington? Since she had first heard about this bizarre bequest, an almost endless number of questions had rattled round her brain, but the big question—the one she kept returning to and to which there appeared to be no rational answer—really puzzled her. And today she had to make a decision.
‘You’ve been very quiet, love.’
‘Sorry, Dad, just lots of things to think about. Don’t you think it’s odd though that cousin Nigel left the house to me instead of you?’ She turned to look at her calm, dependable dad. ‘Why would he do that?’
Even though Maddy hadn’t inherited many physical features from her dad—her copper hair and hazel eyes very obviously came from her mother—they shared many other traits, and even as a child it was his opinion she valued and respected.
‘Who knows what he was thinking? Maybe he realised I’d have to give up my job, move the family over there? Maybe he just picked a family member out of the air? Maybe he added the codicil as some sort of amusement—the family could inherit as long as they upped sticks and moved to the country for a year.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s like the plot from some Agatha Christie novel. Without the murder obviously,’ he added quickly. ‘And whatever your mother says about it, it doesn’t matter about the money; if you don’t want to stay there, you can always come home again until you find yourself another job.’
Maddy patted his arm. ‘Thanks. Let’s just get today over with first.’
According to Maddy’s earlier internet search, the village of Cotlington grew around the church, which was built in the eighteenth century and owed its existence to the rich patronage of the fifth Earl of Haxford. The church was constructed in a gothic style and like many buildings of that age, now needed more maintenance than it could afford. Inside the porch there was a noticeboard displaying a totaliser showing how much money was required each year to keep the church going. There were also various colourful posters, including one detailing the funeral of Nigel Shaw, which announced in a fancy font:
No drab colours. Nigel hated dreary occasions!
Maddy exchanged glances with her father who, like her, was dressed in the time-honoured black attire deemed appropriate for funerals. Except this one apparently. It felt rather odd attending a family funeral while knowing next to nothing about the deceased person.
As they stepped inside, Maddy could see that everyone else had clearly noted the instructions on the poster. The little church was already filling up, and dotted around between the wooden pews were bright daubs of colour: A yellow scarf, a red coat, a purple jacket – very Michael Portillo – and any number of fancy hats. A woman who looked around the same age as her mum was handing out orders of service and greeting everyone as they wandered in.
She was wearing an elegant royal blue dress coat trimmed with silk cuffs and a navy butterfly lapel, and a matching colour hat that was part flower, part feather. Her greying hair was cut in a neat bob just below her ears, and a string of pearls rested against her collarbone.
‘Welcome to St. Peter’s. Good to see you, thank you for coming. Good afternoon, and welcome to St Peter’s.’ Maddy took the service sheet and, walking forward slowly, looked for somewhere to sit. At weddings there were unwritten rules about these things—bride’s family and friends on the left, groom’s on the right. She tried to recall whether the same applied to funerals. Sitting on the right might be safest.
‘Are you looking for someone?’
Maddy spun round to see a pensioner in a floral dress, a bright pink hat and a green chiffon scarf beaming at her. Clearly, the locals had taken this colour themed thing to heart. Even her walking stick matched her colourful dress.
‘We were just trying to see if there were any other family members here,’ her father replied. ‘I’m Doug, Nigel’s cousin, and this is my daughter, Maddy.’
Immediately, the hum of conversation died away and several heads turned to look at them.
‘Family? Well, how lovely to meet you. My name is Joyce Sedgefield.’ The woman waved her walking stick in the air, almost knocking a couple of candles from their sconces as she called out over the heads of those already seated. ‘Myra, this is Nigel’s cousin!’
The woman in the blue hat shoved the orders of service at someone and hurried over. Joyce had called her Myra. Was this Myra Hardcastle? It wasn’t exactly a commonplace name. Maddy got the distinct impression she was being looked over, and not purely because she’d turned up wearing the wrong colour outfit. Did Myra know that she might inherit a house?
‘We didn’t know he was in touch with any of his family.’ She said it in a vaguely accusatory tone. ‘Come this way. You ought to sit at the front.’ She ushered them down the aisle towards the front of the church and after a hurried bit of finger pointing, the two people already sitting in the front pew scurried to the one behind. Her dad gave Maddy an amused look and murmured, ‘I think we’ve found out who runs the village.’
The problem with sitting in the front pew was that everyone could stare at you indiscriminately while it was nigh on impossible to look at anyone without swivelling round. Maddy got the distinct impression that they had just become the main topic of conversation in the church.
As music started playing, she turned ever so slightly so she could glance behind her. Joyce was sitting directly behind them along with Myra and two other men—the former occupants of the front pew. The older man looked to be in his late fifties and had a tired, careworn expression on his face. The light grey suit was clearly his idea of colourful. In contrast, the younger man wore dark trousers and a dark orange shirt. He had a round friendly face, and a mop of dark blond hair that looked like a poorly arranged pile of straw. He gave her a quick sympathetic smile. Based on observable body language and the fact that they were chatting together, Maddy’s best guess was they were Myra’s husband and son.
Cousin Nigel must have been popular, going by the number of people filling up the pews. In between all the bright coloured outfits, she was relieved to spot a dark suit at the back of the church – at least they weren’t the only ones who hadn’t seen the poster. Maddy gasped and quickly turned back.
‘Everything okay?’ whispered her dad.
She must be seeing things. From a distance the man had looked like Cameron Massey, but that was just ridiculous. She hadn’t slept well for the last week and she was obviously tired.
‘Fine,’ she whispered back. ‘Just thought I saw someone I knew. I was mistaken.’
As the congregation stood up, Maddy glanced back again but the man—whoever he was—had disappeared from view.
Based on the unusual funeral dress code, Maddy had been looking forward to discovering whether the rest of the service was going to be equally unconventional, but other than a rousing rendition of ‘My Way’ to close the service accompanied by some enthusiastic humming along from the back of the church, it all seemed disappointingly normal.
The wake was held in the village hall, only a short stroll from the church. Built in a light buff-coloured brick with timber-framed windows, it was set back from the road behind a small area of grass that was already studded with early flowering crocuses. Maddy had to admit that it was a lovely setting—the sort of image you saw on a country postcard or attached to a box of fudge.
Inside, lots of chairs had been set out around individual tables, many already occupied. Along one wall, a number of tables had been pushed together and were covered with white damask tablecloths. They held a series of cake stands containing a selection of sandwiches and all manner of dainty cakes and scones. Maddy didn’t spot the Cameron Massey lookalike in the dark suit, but she did spy Mr Chapman already holding a plate of sandwiches and balancing a cup of tea. He made his way over to where she was sitting.
‘It’s so good of you to organise all this,’ she said after introducing her dad.
Mr Chapman waved away her appreciation. ‘I can’t claim any credit for this delightful buffet—that is all down to Mrs Hardcastle and her estimable army of supporters. They have even organised a few speakers, I believe.’ He beamed, as though spending the afternoon listening to a group of strangers making speeches at funerals was the highlight of his week. If they ever remade Pride & Prejudice, here was a ready candidate for the role of the obsequious Mr Collins.
Did people even have speakers at funerals? Was that a thing? Weddings certainly had traditional speaking roles but Maddy’s experience of funerals was limited to her grandad’s ten years ago and this one. Before she could persuade her dad it might be a good time to make a polite escape and move on to the house tour, someone rapped the side of their teacup and called for quiet.
‘Thank you all for coming today,’ said Myra in a voice that reminded Maddy of her headmistress in junior school who could silence a room with her little finger. ‘I know Nigel would be thrilled to see so many of you here today.’
‘Although technically he probably wouldn’t,’ piped up a man in a blue shirt, ‘because he hadn’t planned on dying so suddenly.’
‘Good point, Leonard,’ said Joyce, nodding her head vigorously and making the feather in her hat waft around. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted his funeral to be just yet. He was only seventy-four. Nigel still had plans.’
‘I’ve written him a poem; he loved silly limericks, didn’t he?’
‘He did. He always had a good ear for that sort of thing—’
Myra tapped her teacup again. ‘Yes, he certainly did, Joyce. Anyway, as I was saying I would just like to thank you all for coming today. Nigel was an incredible and generous man, who gave his time and money to many worthy causes in the village, including the recent new roof on the scout hut.’
‘We don’t need the tin buckets now!’ shouted a voice from the back of the hall, which prompted a gale of laughter.
‘Indeed,’ Myra continued with a smile. ‘And on behalf of all his friends here in Cotlington, I would like to offer our sincere condolences to his family.’
Maddy was unsure how to respond. She wasn’t expected to make a speech, was she? What on earth could one say that didn’t sound trite or ridiculous? Before she could make up her mind, her dad raised his teacup in a regal fashion and murmured a ‘thank you’ to the assembled crowd. To Maddy’s intense relief, the hum of conversation resumed in the hall.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ she whispered. ‘You’re the master of understatement.’
She was dying to ask her dad what he thought of everything. He was adept at seeing through people, and had a love of the ridiculous. Personally, she felt like a fish out of water at this gathering. They were the family members and yet they were clearly the ones who knew Nigel the least. The Nigel she had grown up hearing about was selfish, disrespectful, uncaring. That didn’t fit the description of someone who had just paid to re-roof the scout hut.
Having realised she had no idea how long it would be before they got back to London, Maddy ate a few of the sandwiches while she waited for Mr Chapman to escape from the group of women standing around him; it was like watching pigeons flocking round a person carrying an obviously large bag of breadcrumbs. Clearly knowledge was currency here, and there were no prizes for distributing second-hand information.
She reckoned that he’d be under siege for at least another twenty minutes and had just started on a slice of delicious cherry cake when Mr Chapman appeared at her side.
‘Would it be convenient to view the house now?’ he asked in a discreet voice.
‘Absolutely,’ Maddy confirmed. She stood up. Was there a goodbye etiquette for funerals? At weddings, it was easy as either the bride and groom departed first in a blaze of confetti and good wishes, or else you sought them out on the wedding party dancefloor. In this case, the person in whose honour the gathering was being held had already departed this earth. In order to avoid dithering further, Maddy sought out Myra Hardcastle, expressed her thanks for organising the refreshments and then followed Mr Chapman out to the car park.
They drove in convoy the short distance to the house. Either Cotlington had a 15mph speed limit, or Mr Chapman felt that the funereal pace was more appropriate to the occasion. Either way it gave Maddy a chance to take a proper look at the village. Cotlington seemed mainly comprised of quaint cottages—either brick-faced or rendered and painted in pastel shades that reminded her of seaside houses. One or two even had a thatched roof. There wasn’t much traffic at all, but then the majority of the residents were probably still in the village hall finishing up the free sandwiches.
After a short distance, they turned off the main street and down another road that led out of the village. It wasn’t long before the houses gave way to trees, behind which Maddy glimpsed fields. The car in front slowed even further as they approached a pair of decorative brick gateposts and turned into a curving driveway flanked on either side by rhododendrons and other evergreen shrubs. It wasn’t until they pulled up outside and got out that Maddy got her first proper look at the house.
Mr Chapman smiled confidently as he approached. ‘So, what do you think of Meadowside?’
Maddy gazed up at the imposing structure. This surely couldn’t be all hers? It was like something out of a novel! The brownish grey stone gave the building an aged brooding look, and its quirky gabled roof lent an added air of mystery. Whether it had ever started life as a rectangular building was debatable but over the years it had clearly been added to and was crying out to be explored.
‘I think it’s beautiful!’
Mr Chapman gestured to the imposing porch. ‘Shall we?’ He fished a large keyring from his jacket pocket and unlocked the sturdy wooden front door. Inside the house it was much the same temperature as outside, minus the chill wind. Back at the flat, Alice had gas central heating that was controlled by a dial in the hall. Maddy suspected that this size of property might require something more than a couple of radiators.
The wood-panelled entrance hall had a musty air that reminded her of old bookshops and Grandad Shaw’s pipe tobacco. There were various framed photographs hanging on the wall and a painting of the San Francisco Golden Gate Bridge. Doors led off the hall to various rooms including a generous-sized dining room, a cosy snug, a larger, more formal sitting room, and various small storage cupboards.
At the far end, a smaller, narrow hallway led to a kitchen with a red quarry tiled floor, which clearly last saw an overhaul in the 1980s judging by the oak cupboards and Formica worktops. In the centre of the room stood a sturdy pine table, its surface scarred by years of use. The freestanding dresser at one end held a dusty selection of patterned plates that definitely needed a visit to the dishwasher. She would have liked to inspect the contents of the cupboards but Mr Chapman clearly didn’t regard the kitchen as very interesting and led them swiftly back towards the hall, where the narrow hallway continued on towards the opposite side of the house and led to yet another door.
‘Allow me,’ he said, opening it with a flourish which could have doubled as a small bow. Maddy tried not to giggle as she stepped inside. The smothered giggle turned into a gasp as she gazed around yet another generous-sized high-ceilinged room. Even without the commentary from Mr Chapman it was obvious this was Nigel’s library.
