Читать книгу Fire in the Thatch - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 16

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When Anne and her father had left, Tom Gressingham walked back to the fire and observed to Howard Brendon, “I wonder why the old chap turned so civil all of a sudden: seems a bit fishy to me.”

“I suppose his daughter-in-law asked him to call,” replied Brendon. “It’d be a bit awkward all round if her in-laws wouldn’t countenance her friends in a place like this, especially if she’s going to run in and out while you’re here. Country folk gossip, Gressingham, for all they seem so dumb.”

“Oh, let ’em gossip,” replied Tom indifferently. “All the same, I wish I knew what had induced the old man to do the polite. It certainly wasn’t June. She’d had a bit of a dust with him already on my account. St Cyres has a lovely old cottage—a derelict mess of a place but it’d pay for reconditioning—and June asked him to let me take it and improve it. Nothing doing. He wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Of course he wouldn’t. What did I tell you? St Cyres won’t let any townsfolk develop his properties. A cottage can be condemned and only fit for cattle to live in, but he wouldn’t have it altered, let alone sell it. I suppose he’d put some farm labourers in it rather than let it to you at a good rent.”

“I can’t quite make it out. The cottage—Little Thatch—is let. There’s a big tough there, working in the garden. I’ve no idea who the chap is, but Mrs. Hesling says he’s living there all by himself, pigging it in the kitchen. I can’t make it out. He’s not a farm labourer, that’s certain. I spoke to him over the gate when I passed, and although he wouldn’t bother to be civil, from the dozen or so words he spoke it was clear enough he’s an educated man, though I’d hazard a guess he’s a north-country man—dour, hard sort of chap. He was digging in the garden, up to his knees in mud and muck like a labourer.”

“Perhaps Miss Anne St Cyres has taken a leaf out of her sister-in-law’s book and got Daddy to let the cottage to a boy friend of her own,” replied Brendon, and Gressingham sniggered.

“Think so? I don’t—and I shouldn’t admire her taste if she had. The bloke’s got a patch over his eye and a scar right down one cheek—a proper tough. The funny part of it is that I’m convinced I’ve seen his face somewhere. I couldn’t get a good look at him, because he turned away almost at once: then to-day, when I walked past again, he’d fixed up a wattle which screens the garden, so I didn’t get another look at him.”

“He sounds a shy bird,” commented Brendon. “Well, I’d better be off—I shan’t get to Exeter before seven as it is. If I do hear of any properties likely to come into the market, I’ll let you know, though if you take my advice you’ll go back to the Home Counties. This part of the world’s no good to a man like you, Gressingham. The landowners are a sticky lot, they’ll never welcome a Londoner, and you’re not the man to be satisfied with your own company for long. Give up the idea and buy a decent modern house in Berkshire or Surrey—you’re far more likely to get value for money there.”

“Thanks for the advice, old man. All the same, I don’t give up easily, any more than you do. My experience in life has been that you can get what you want if you want it enough.”

“If you’re willing to pay for it, in short. They say money talks, but the man who said that had never been in Devon.”