at her watch. ‘I was dreaming. I had no idea I had been here so long.’ Flustered, she pushed the book back onto its space and tucked her notes into her bag then she went to find a coffee shop. She already had a favourite. Surely that meant something.
Lesley Inworth had the ground-floor flat on the right-hand side of the front door of Timperton Hall. She led Zoë and Rosemary into the sitting room and gestured round. ‘Isn’t it a lovely room? I think it’s the nicest in the house. We have this marvellous view down across the river in the distance. The rest of the flat is small. It’s been divided so everybody gets one or two nice rooms and then one or two of the smaller ones at the back. My bedroom was the squire’s study. The stables have been turned into another flat at the back and there are two more upstairs.’ She was a wispy woman, thin and wiry, in her late forties, widowed, according to Rosemary, who had given Zoë a quick update on her background as they walked up the hill, with two daughters who both lived in London. Her passion was gardening and she was employed by the residents’ committee to supervise the grounds and to look after the Victorian gardens, which had miraculously survived and which were very beautiful.
Zoë had been wrong about the Hall losing its character. It had been converted with great care to conserve its architecture and make use of its features. They sat down round the fire, which burned in a beautiful Regency fireplace, while Lesley poured coffee and produced some homemade cake.
‘The history of the house was very sad at the end,’ she said in answer to Zoë’s query. ‘The Crosby family had lived here for generations, then the last squire had no children so the estate passed to some distant cousin who never actually came here. Then his son was killed in the First World War and there was no one else. It was sold up. I expect that happened to so many families.’
‘And after that it was converted into flats?’
Lesley shook her head. ‘It was sold to the farm. Bill Turtill’s dad or granddad. It is an extraordinary turnaround of fate. The Turtills were farm managers to the estate in the nineteenth century, but somehow they ended up buying the farm and a lot of the land, then in the fifties they bought the Hall and the rest of the estate for a song. They showed themselves to be pretty astute. They resold the Hall and kept the land and the barns; then much later they sold the barns for development. They had trouble getting planning permission because they were so old and listed but they managed it in the end.’
‘And so, here we all are.’ Rosemary beamed at them both. ‘And it’s Bill I need to talk to again about the footpaths. He has closed one of them off; changed its route completely.’
Lesley gave her a close look. ‘I hardly think the route matters in the great scheme of things. As long as people can still walk the fields.’
‘Ah, but there you are wrong.’ Rosemary set down her cup purposefully and sat forward on the edge of her chair. ‘These are ancient highways, rights of way. They have to be protected.’
Lesley sighed. ‘My dear, that path you keep going on about, across Dead Man’s Field, it doesn’t exist. I have looked at all sorts of maps and plans. It’s just not there. And there is a lovely walk along a pretty lane down the edge of the field.’ She glanced at Zoë. ‘Has Rosemary signed you up to her footpath mafia yet?’
Zoë shook her head, embarrassed. ‘No, not me. I jog. I don’t like walking. At least not with lots of people.’
‘No more do I.’ Lesley gave a sudden snort of laughter. ‘Ghastly thought! I am sorry, Rosemary dear, but you know it’s true. I’ve seen them. Your friends don’t look at the country-side, they are not interested in flowers or birds or even the views of the river. They won’t let anyone take a dog with them, for heaven’s sake! All they want to do is criticise, compare it to some approximation of a town park, measure that the grass is the right length and if the poor farmers haven’t cut it, they want to know why not; as though these guys haven’t got better things to do. Bill should put a socking great bull in that field. That’s what I say!’
Zoë hid a smile. ‘Why is it called Dead Man’s Field? That sounds a bit spooky.’
‘And rightly so. There is a tumulus in the field. Now that is on a lot of the maps, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, Rosemary, though you’ve chosen to ignore it. The field has long had a reputation for being haunted. Another reason the locals wouldn’t walk there if you paid them and why there wouldn’t be a footpath across it. Why is it, Rosemary, it is always newcomers who stir these things up? Why don’t you ask the locals if there was ever a path there? And listen to their answers.’
‘Because the locals aren’t interested.’ Rosemary sniffed. ‘They don’t care about the countryside half the time.’ She wasn’t going to admit that she had at the beginning overlooked the fact that the silly little pile of earth she had contemplated bulldozing was a tumulus. Most of the maps didn’t show it any more anyway. ‘All they are interested in is if they can stuff the latest plasma telly into their front rooms.’
‘Oh, my dear, that is so wrong.’ Lesley shook her head. ‘Read the history, the proper history of the estate, not your little maps which were probably drawn up by retired clergy-men in the thirties who never set foot in the fields themselves.’ She was looking agitated. ‘I’ve read a lot about this area; it’s my job as part of restoring the gardens.’
‘Well, the farm was never part of the gardens,’ Rosemary said stiffly. ‘The local people wanted access to the river. It is the obvious route if you look at the maps.’
‘The local people have the lane, Rosemary. That is why it is there. That is where it goes. To the river.’
‘They’ll thank me in the end.’ Rosemary helped herself to a piece of cake. ‘They don’t know anything about rights of way and they are too lazy to bother, but they will use the path once it’s there, you’ll see.’
Zoë stared at her. ‘That sounds awfully snobby and patronising, Rosemary, if you don’t mind my saying so. Are there any farm workers’ cottages belonging to the estate?’ She changed the subject hastily, looking at Lesley. ‘I was looking at a map in the library and it didn’t seem to show any that are still there.’
‘No. There aren’t any left now.’ Lesley stood up and reached for the coffee pot. Tight-lipped, she topped up Rosemary’s cup and then Zoë’s. ‘The Old Forge next to you is the only one left, as far as I know. I am sure there were cottages; there must have been on the estate, when the farm was in its heyday, but I expect they collapsed over the years. They were probably fairly basic, and once the family had gone who would care? They were not part of a village, after all. Bill might know.’ She glanced at Rosemary. ‘Come on, don’t sulk, old thing. Hurry up and drink that and we’ll show Zoë round the gardens.’
Straightening up for a few moments to rest his back after bending over the engine housing, Ken saw Steve Formby strolling down the path towards him. He groaned inwardly, but managed a cheery wave. ‘The girls have gone up to the Hall for coffee, I gather,’ he called.
Steve nodded. He lowered himself carefully onto the edge of the landing stage and sat with his legs dangling over the water. ‘It is so lovely here,’ he said. ‘Peaceful.’
Ken contemplated a response and decided to say nothing. He was not a fan of Steve’s wife. She was noisy and bossy and far too aggressive for his liking. He leaned back against the cabin door. ‘I hear the Watts family are down. We haven’t met them yet.’
Steve blew gustily through pursed lips. ‘I wouldn’t bother. They are a nightmare.’
‘Noisy?’ There
