Trust in Matt

By Jenni Thornley

Matt Stevens, having completed his history degree, undertakes the investigation of the Tindall family and the history of Netherby Hall, their home since 1458.
He discovers how their lives affected those around them and makes a sinister discovery, with the help of his young friend Christopher.
The story also follows the ups and downs of the personal relationships of people in Matt's life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jenni Thornley
• Release date: Feb 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458081308

Jenni Thornley

I was born in Port Stanley, Falkland Islands before returning to England with the rest of my family aged three. I left school after A levels and worked for NatWest bank for almost 20 years. I completed an Open University correspondence degree in Natural Sciences during this time. I then worked as administrator at a nursing home for four years before deciding on a change in life. I went to New Zealand for nine months completing a Post Graduate Diploma in Resource Studies before returning to eventually find another administrative position, this time with the RSPB at Otmoor in Oxfordshire. After nearly three years there, I moved to Carnforth in Lancashire to work at the RSPB Leighton Moss nature reserve. While working here I discovered an interest in writing and after taking a evening course in Creative Writing for a year, my other students and I started the CG Jelly Friskers writing group and I have completed three novels since then.

Book preview

Trust in Matt

By Jenni Thornley

Copyright 2011 Jenni Thornley

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Chapter one

Goodbye Mr Lawson

He had reached ninety four and according to his doctor had died in his sleep following a heart attack. While not the sad occasion it might have been for a younger less fit man, the funeral was sombre and black. In his eulogy, the vicar described a man who lived life to the full, set a fine example for future generations of his family, was an inspiration to many friends and had been a much loved member of the community.

Matt Stevens and Beth Drabble attended the funeral at what his father Jim described as their first official function since becoming engaged. The pale light from the stained glass window haloed Beth as she listened, a tear slowly making its way down her young cheek. The soft sunlight of September had given way to gentle rain before the interment at Gatesby churchyard in the family plot under the shadow of the ancient yew tree.

Following his funeral, his family, friends and neighbours were saying goodbye with a sustaining drink, good homemade soup and a variety of sandwiches at Grange Farm, Willington hosted by his grandson Jeremy. Affectionate stories were told about him, a favourite, subject to variation, being the occasion he had not been able to get his car started one wintry Sunday morning so had arrived at church by tractor, sitting quietly at the back giving off a strong odour of cowshed. Other conversations revolved around reminiscences on old farming methods returning to favour, of subsidies, grants and payments, and how it would be really nice to do some farming instead of paperwork.

Matt and Beth had lost a friend - an unexpected friend - who had helped them with their research into the family history for the Gatesby Windmill Restoration Project. He had enjoyed their company and enthusiasm for his old stories and family details, even portraits of the ancestors they had investigated. In turn, they had enjoyed their walks through woods and across fields, on fair days or through rain, to be greeted warmly, always with a cup of tea and occasionally with an old fashioned high tea.

Grange Farm was originally a square building with bits added on so the modern house ended up like a T and the front was now at the back. The funeral party took up the kitchen the dining room and sprawled around the front living room.

‘I understand congratulations are in order,’ said Jeremy when he managed to find a moment to speak to Matt and Beth as they stood by the cocktail cabinet in the living room.

They sheepishly grinned at each other then both together replied ‘Yes. We’re engaged.’ All three laughed.

‘I asked her after the windmill opening party and she said yes,’ Matt explained, smiling at Beth, who smiled back, her baby blue eyes wide, her blond hair tied high on her head in a ponytail, the collar of the black jacket borrowed from her mum framing her face and neck.

‘With the windmill lit by moonlight at midnight … it was so romantic,’ she said to Jeremy, but still looking at Matt; his trimmed dark hair a contrast to hers, his eyes a darker shade of blue. He looked smart and rather handsome in his dark grey suit – last worn at the aforementioned opening ceremony. ‘And the stars all shone. I couldn’t say anything but yes,’ she concluded dreamily.

Jeremy grimaced. ‘I should have thought of that when I proposed … it took me three goes for my wife to accept me.’

Matt and Beth both looked at him, surprised. ‘I would have said yes straight away,’ said Beth, not entirely tactfully thought Matt, but let it pass. They all laughed again.

‘Have you any idea when you’ll actually get married?’ Jeremy asked taking a sip.

‘Not for a while yet; I’ve only just finished my degree and need to find a job,’ said Matt.

‘Well you could get married and still live at home. People do that nowadays I believe, like they used to do in grandfather’s time.’

Matt and Beth looked at each other. They had touched on the idea briefly but it did not appeal. ‘We’d rather wait, but I realise it could be a while,’ replied Matt, squeezing Beth’s hand. She was twenty and he twenty two, so no need to rush.

‘What are you going to do with the Lodge now?’ asked Matt, before turning crimson as he realised discussing the disposal of old Mr Lawson’s property at his funeral was not especially tactful.

Jeremy smiled and asked mischievously, ‘were you thinking of renting it?’

‘That would be nice,’ said Beth, not realising anything was wrong.

Jeremy smiled at her indulgently. ‘I imagine Gerald will take it on, if he wants to. We won’t be doing anything for a while. I’ll keep you in mind if he’s not interested.’ He smiled again and left to talk to other guests.

Matt and Beth rolled their eyes at each other and left shortly afterwards, returning to Faraday Cottage at the Willington end of Gatesby village where he lived with his parents.

‘How was it?’ asked his mother Alice from the kitchen when they walked through the front door.

Matt loosened his tie and took off his shoes. ‘Not bad actually,’ he said leading Beth into the kitchen, while fending off the boisterous attentions of Russet, his eight year old English springer spaniel. ‘Loads of people were there, all saying nice things about him. He’d have been really pleased.’ He crouched down and petted Russet before taking a sip from the mug of tea Alice had poured for him.

‘We spoke to Jeremy Lawson afterwards,’ put in Beth. Matt shot her a concerned look. ‘He says we might be able to live in the Lodge.’

Matt jumped in before Alice could say anything. ‘He said he’d see if Gerald would like it … and then there’s his daughter Catherine. I’m sure he wasn’t seriously thinking of offering the house away from the family, Beth.’ He glared at her.

She frowned back at him thinking that if they found a place of their own they could get married sooner. Knowing it was not going to be that simple, Matt hoped her mother Sandra would talk sense into her. Sandra and her husband Ted had not been surprised when Matt had asked for the hand of their only child and were pleased a hurried ceremony was not necessary, but had not offered any material assistance to speed up the process.

‘I’d better be getting back to work. I was only supposed to be off this morning for the funeral,’ Beth said and gave Matt a quick peck on the cheek, waved at Alice and rubbed the top of Russet’s head before banging the front door behind her, leaving for Ivy Cottage at the other end of the village.

Alice and Matt were left in silence until she suddenly walked over to him and gave him a big hug. ‘My little boy,’ she said affectionately, patting his back.

He pulled away, not the least impressed with this uncharacteristic show of emotion. ‘I’m not a little boy mum,’ he said indignantly. ‘I’m twenty two, I’ve got my degree and I can take care of myself.’ He glowered at her but she simply huffed, folded her arms and raised an eyebrow.

‘Really,’ she said. ‘Able to afford a flat, a car, feed yourself … and Beth?’

‘I didn’t say I don’t still need your help, but I’m grown up now. We’ll get ourselves sorted out as soon as we can.’

‘Would you like an incentive?’ she asked, arms still folded. ‘If you’re no longer a student, I’ll have some rent off you. It will get you used to having to pay out for things, encourage you to get a job.’

Matt’s scowl deepened. ‘I’m trying. I looked in the papers all last week and tried at the Job Centre. Work for history graduates doesn’t grow on trees.’ He finished his tea.

Still with her arms folded but her voice much softer, Alice reminded him of the suggestion made a couple of days before. ‘Paul says you might get grant funding if you stayed on for a masters or a doctorate. You just need a project. Surely you must be able to think of something you’d like to take further,’ she urged.

Professor Paul Cork had been Matt’s tutor throughout his history degree, and was the owner of the newly restored Gatesby Windmill. Matt, with help from Beth and Alice, both gratefully acknowledged, had produced a dissertation on the lives of the Colledge family from the windmill and their neighbours who lived in the village from the 1850’s. Finding his family was related made the work that bit more personal. They had also discovered other families who presently lived in either Gatesby or Willington had done so back in the 1850’s, not least Mr Lawson’s family who owned and worked Grange Farm.

Having been pleased with the standard of work produced, Paul felt Matt could take it a stage further and complete a PhD. But apart being unable to come up with a project, Matt felt that although he enjoyed the research, he ought to get a proper job, whatever that meant. Having complicated matters by asking his life-long friend Beth to marry him, he needed to earn money. Paul and Alice, having worked closely on the windmill project, were ganging up on him, trying to convince him this was the right way forward. As finding a job was not quite as straight forward as he had hoped, pressure was beginning to tell and he started to think it might not be such a bad idea after all. Alice just tipped him over the bar.

‘I’m going to have to try to find a job a bit further a-field, or relent and try for that job at the Council – you know the one in Human Resources,’ he said, unenthusiastically.

Alice pulled a face. ‘I hate that term. If I worked in an office I wouldn’t want to be thought of a resource; I’m a person and prefer personnel. I expect they changed it when they discovered how many people couldn’t spell it.’ She then changed the subject. ‘You’re dad’ll be back in an hour. What would you like for tea?’

As the discussion about his immediate future seemed to be put aside, Matt smiled, agreeing to whatever she had in mind and went upstairs to change out of his suit hoping next time he wore it would be for an interview; he would try for the job at the Council just for practice. Jim was not keen on him taking that route either, but he could not live at home forever and the longer he took about it, the less chance he had of getting what he wanted - or so he thought.

~~~

Beth arrived at the Drabble’s Ivy Cottage close to the windmill to prepare for her work at a health food shop in the centre of Lincoln In the dining room Sandra was working on her laptop on the dark mahogany dining table, sitting in one of the matching upright chairs, sorting out invoices for her joiner husband, Ted. She had moved the crystal vase of fragrant pale pink lilies to one side so she had more room. As she was nearly finished, the table was strewn with job lists and delivery notes and she acknowledged her daughter as Beth called ‘hello’ from the kitchen.

‘How did it go, love?’ asked Sandra, happy for a distraction.

‘Quite good, actually,’ said Beth as she walked into the room, having taken her jacket off en route. She took a seat opposite. ‘Mr Lawson was popular and people said some very nice things about him.’ She smiled thinking of the times she and Matt had visited the Lodge, which reminded her. ‘Jeremy says we might have a chance at his old house … you know, Grange Lodge. That would be great wouldn’t it?’ she asked smiling again.

Sandra, who apart from having curly brown shoulder length hair, looked exactly like her daughter enough for them to be mistaken for sisters, looked sceptical. ‘You don’t seriously think he would rent that house to you and Matt, do you? How would you be able to afford it?’ she said picking up the final bill on her pile while dismissing this optimistic hope.

‘You really want to marry Matt then do you?’ she asked after a further moment of silence in which Beth had stared miserably out of the leaded window onto the patio and shrubbery beyond.

The question startled Beth back to reality. ‘Of course I do! I thought you were pleased when we told you.’

Sandra shrugged. ‘You’re still young,’ she said, putting her hand up to pacify any protest. ‘Only twenty, which may be the oldest you’ve ever been, but you haven’t seen much of the world or had a chance to meet many people, have you?’

Beth’s mouth dropped open. ‘You’re the one who wouldn’t let me travel when I wanted to; you didn’t insist I went to university, we always go back to the same place in Spain for holidays, and then you tell me I haven’t much experience of the world!’ she stated, indignantly.

‘What I meant was you’ve known Matt all your life; you’re comfortable with him. That doesn’t mean you have to spend the rest of your life with him. Why not wait a while longer and see if you meet anyone else you prefer,’ Sandra replied as she gathered up the paperwork and closed down her computer.

‘I thought you liked Matt, were pleased I’m marrying him and not some drugged out hippy you’ve never heard of!’ said Beth angrily. The back door opened and Ted called a muffled greeting from the kitchen.

‘I do like Matt. I’m personally very pleased you want to marry him – he’s a lovely lad and will probably make you very happy,’ said Sandra, rising and leading the way to the kitchen. ‘It’s just I’m not sure he’s … what’s the word … sparky enough for you.’

‘Sparky!’ said Beth amazed at her choice.

‘Who’s Sparky?’ asked Ted joining the end of the conversation while wiping his hands on a cream towel. All three stood around the central beech worktop Ted had lovingly made with its selection of useful white cupboards below. Ted, tall, dark and thin but muscular added, ‘used to know a lad at school called Sparky – kept blowing up capacitors in physics lessons.’

Sandra raised an eyebrow at him. ‘We were just discussing Beth’s decision to marry Matt. I think she’s being a bit hasty.’

‘Really? I think it’s a great idea. What’s wrong with Matt? I thought you liked him.’

‘I do.’

Beth jumped in. ‘He’s not ‘sparky’ enough for me, apparently.’

‘Don’t worry love,’ said Ted with a cheeky smile and the usual twinkle in his eye, ‘I’m sure Beth is sparky enough for both of them.’ Both women groaned.

~~~

The next day being Saturday and Beth’s day off, she and Matt met at the end of Mill Lane and walked slowly to the windmill on the little hill. The soft morning light caught the dew on the bushes leading up the track further defusing it and creating a mellow, mutable glow. Hand in hand, they were quiet, deep in thought.

‘I’ll miss him, won’t you?’ asked Matt suddenly. Beth, thinking about the conversation with her parents the day before, wondered how this was relevant. ‘Mr Lawson. I wish I’d met him years ago; he was a really nice man. Never patronising or autocratic which he could have been; he genuinely wanted to help us and enjoyed our company.’ He smiled to himself at the memory of seeing the watercolour portraits of Mr Lawson’s ancestors and the resemblance to a man who had been less than saintly. He sighed.

They reached the windmill without Beth saying anything, so Matt assumed she was reflecting on what he had said. Joe Mitchell came out of the door at the base of windmill and gave them a friendly wave. A former student colleague of Matt’s, since starting his job as apprentice miller he had tidied himself up a bit; except for a smudge of oil on his cheek, his black hair was neatly trimmed and brushed, he shaved every day and wore long dusty blue overalls with steel toe-capped boots poking out at the bottom. Living as Paul’s lodger however, he was unlikely to change from being thin and wiry.

‘Good day,’ he called with his New Zealand accent, smiling.

‘How’s it going?’ asked Matt. Joe looked upwards over his shoulder at the sails slowly turning, the slats fully closed as they tried to catch the slightest of breezes on this still morning.

‘The forecast is for a few calm days,’ said Joe, turning back to them, wiping his hands on a rather oily rag. ‘It means I can get a few jobs done, but it’s not very exciting for visitors.’

All three stood together in the centre of the yard, looking up at the black bulk of the windmill, its pristine white cap gleaming in the sunshine.

Beth sighed. ‘It’s so beautiful.’ The young men both smiled at her. The light caught her ponytail, and reflected in her eyes as she stared fondly at the windmill.

‘Anything we can do to help’ asked Matt. Dressed in clean jeans and pale blue jumper, he did not look as if he had come prepared for a lot of work.

Joe took this into account when he pointed to the middle outhouse. ‘You could dust around in there if you wouldn’t mind. I haven’t had chance this week. Your mum’s coming up later to check the garden and do a bit of trimming and weeding I think. Paul mentioned something about her coming, so I expect that what’s she’s doing,’ he added.

Beth and Matt made their way to the whitewashed outhouse with black window frames with its small garden in front. It had been opened to the public for two months and a steady trickle of visitors curious to see what was going on enjoyed the displays and demonstrations put on in the small and middle outhouses. The larger one, still used for storage, would one day be a shop and tearoom. Currently, the flour Joe was learning to mill was sold cheaply to villagers, but once he had refined his technique, visitors would be able to buy it from the base of the windmill.

‘Have Alice and Jim said anything to you about us getting married?’ Beth asked Matt before they were barely through the outhouse door.

Startled by her aggressive tone, he turned to look at her; was that uncertainty on her face? He hesitated before replying. ‘Mum thinks we’re being a bit hasty … thinks I should get a job first … have some way of supporting you … us, before we get married.’ He did not take his eyes off her, interested in her reaction.

She continued to stare at him for another few seconds then looked away at the quern stones visitors were invited to try out. ‘Mum thinks I’ve made a mistake … agreeing to marry you. She doesn’t think you’re right for me. Not ‘sparky’ enough she said.’

Matt grinned, but it faded quickly. ‘What do you think?’ he asked bravely. Even though they had been friends for years, they had only let their feelings develop recently.

‘Neither of us has spent much time in other relationships.’ She shrugged, looking at the display of Victorian clothes hanging in the corner, fleetingly remembering the day they had found them in a disintegrating old trunk. ‘I’ve known you a long time ... I feel comfortable with you ... I trust you,’ she said simply. ‘Are we doing the right thing? … Are we moving too fast? … Should we have gone out with other people before deciding to marry?’ Her tone was unsure as she looked at the Thank You board with photographs of volunteers working on repairs to the windmill over the last few years.

Matt still watched her. ‘I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t think it was the right thing to do,’ he replied. Having spent so much of the previous year working out how to tell her how he felt about her, he was not going to let a few doubts from their parents put him off. ‘Other couples manage, so will we … even if it takes a while, we’ll get sorted out. I’ll get a job and we’ll find somewhere to live ... You’re not in a rush are you?’ he asked.

‘No, but it would be nice not to have mum … making comments.’

‘I’ll do my best. Lets get started,’ he said, handing her a duster and tin of polish as he set to work cleaning the windows.

~~~

A week later Matt and Beth walked from Ivy Cottage to Faraday Cottage admiring the autumn colours of the oak, ash and lime trees dotted about the countryside. Both dressed in jeans and jumpers, he wore his black padded jacket, she her short pink one. The days were getting shorter and cooler, the warmth of the sun taking longer to have an effect. Tree shadows bar coded the road. Blackbirds and robins sang and sparrows, wrens and dunnocks flew, jumped and hopped about the hedges and undergrowth. A late red admiral butterfly wafted along in front of them, with hornets, bees and hoverflies crowded around the small green flowers of the ivy climbing a telegraph pole.

‘Do you want children,’ he asked thoughtfully kicking a thick twig off the road.

‘You want to start now?’ she asked with a twinkle, giving his arm a squeeze.

He rolled his eyes. ‘Wait until we get back to the house. No, I meant have you thought about it at all?’

‘Yes I suppose. I’d like three … well more than one anyway. It’s not much fun being an only child.’

‘What makes you think it’s fun having a brother?’ he asked kicking another twig venomously.

‘There must be some part of having a brother you like,’ she said encouragingly.

Matt thought for a moment. ‘I liked it when he left home.’

Beth patted his arm. ‘Ours will get on really well … I’ll make them.’ They walked a little further in reflective silence. ‘Are you still worried about a job and supporting me?’

Matt shrugged. ‘Something’ll turn up. I’ve applied for the job at the Council and if I get it, I’ll be in a better position to see if they have anything else more appropriate.’

‘You won’t get it … your hearts not in it,’ she said wisely.

He looked at her admiringly; she did understand him and he appreciated her not nagging him into something he did not really want. ‘You weren’t bothered about your job but now you’re really happy there,’ he pointed out.

Beth shrugged this time. ‘I’ve been given the chance to develop and now I find it really interesting.’

Matt thought for a few moments. ‘If I got a job in another part of the country, would you be happy moving with me?’ Beth started in surprise. ‘You haven’t thought that might happen have you?’

‘I’ve led the proverbial sheltered life,’ she replied. ‘Leaving here would be a wrench but it would depend on where you went, I suppose. Where are you thinking of?’

‘I’m not, but if I take forward this historical investigation idea, I won’t be able to do it around here I shouldn’t think … although I could work from home or travel.’

‘Let’s worry about that when you have a job and we have a house and three kids shall we?’ replied Beth as they arrived at Faraday Cottage.

They walked past Paul’s mustard coloured battered old Volvo estate parked in the driveway. He and Alice were in the kitchen making coffee. The room’s green cupboards and yellow paintwork gave the feeling of spring. Alice filled an extra couple of mugs when she heard Matt and Beth come in. They all went to the living room with their drinks and a plate of homemade soft-centred ginger biscuits.

‘How’s the job hunting going?’ asked Paul without preamble. A tall angular man with a shock of dark brown hair that stuck up at the front then fell across his face in a spiky fringe, he sat forward to drink his coffee like a predatory cat, sharp eyes missing nothing.

Matt sitting back in his chair like a mouse about to disappear back in its hole, knew where this was leading. ‘I’m applying for things,’ he said weakly.

‘He’s working with Jim again one day a week … to earn his keep,’ chipped in Alice.

Paul smiled rather maliciously Matt thought. ‘Have you heard about the new owner at Netherby Hall?’ he asked, noticing their blank faces. ‘He’s an American … a rich American interested in investigating his roots,’ he said, his stare penetrating Matt. ‘I’ve told him I’ve just the person to help him.’ Everyone looked at Matt who coloured. ‘Of course, Tony’s not got your flare for the personal touch, but he’s keen which is almost as good.’

‘Tony!’ exclaimed Matt, rising to the bait. Tony Hill, another of Matt’s fellow students had just scarped a second class history degree and would be better suited to a job in Human Resources.

‘Yes. All he has to do is look up some Parish records, check over a family tree which someone has already started, and catalogue some artefacts,’ listed Paul in a dull bored tone. ‘Nothing a bright model enthusiastic student like you would be interested in, a few miles up the road.’ He sighed. ‘Still I expect another more interesting job will crop up sometime in the next decade, hopefully somewhere in this county.’ He smiled. ‘And you’ll be cooped up in an office in Lincoln, just waiting for that opportunity.’

Matt sagged under the relentlessness of the attack. ‘Sounds ideal,’ he acknowledged quietly.

Paul bounced in his seat. ‘Good. I’ll have a word and tell him you’d like to chat to sort things out.’ Matt winced, but judging by the smug smile on Alice’s face, he was not going to be able to back out.

Beth initially looked enthusiastic at the idea but changed to a puzzled expression. ‘Why do you think this bloke will want to pay Matt to look up the history of his relatives?’ she asked, sipping her coffee. ‘I mean … if he lives in America, why should he care?’ Paul gave her a scathing look, not deigning to answer but looked encouragingly at Matt.

‘Well,’ began Matt feeling like he was in an examination, ‘I imagine if he’s keen on finding out about his background … people who move abroad when they’re young often feel they need a foundation, an association with the family left behind … he might want to explore what sort of people his ancestors were which would help him explain who he is,’ he finished triumphantly feeling this a clever statement.

‘But what if you discover they were horrible people and no one liked them?’ asked Beth innocently.

Matt looked annoyed she should question him. ‘It will have to be warts and all or it’s not worth doing.’

‘But you might find out they were cruel murderers and thieves and got the Hall by underhand means,’ she persisted.

Matt scowled now, Alice and Paul watching the pair, amused. ‘If they did, then that’s what I’ll find. I can’t change history, just find the truth. If this American chap doesn’t like it, that’s his problem,’ he said crossly.

‘But what if he’s OK about it, but you upset one or other of his neighbours,’ Beth continued, a dog gnawing a bone. ‘What if you find he’s not really the owner,’ her eyes suddenly brightened at the thought. ‘What if someone in the past stole the deeds, or drove off the real people … you know during the Reformation or something; I’ll bet some locals take exception to what you find.’ she ended triumphantly.

‘Don’t you want me to try to make a living as an historical researcher?’ asked Matt irritably. ‘You’re not exactly encouraging me.’

Beth coloured. ‘Sorry,’ she said with a shy smile. ‘I didn’t mean you shouldn’t do it, I’m just thinking of the consequences of what you might find.’

‘Historians have faced that dilemma for a few years now,’ said Paul in his best professor voice. They all turned their attention back to him. ‘After any triumph, the victors write their version. It takes dedication and hard work to find out the consequences for those left in their wake. It’s won’t all be pretty.’ Matt nodded.

‘So you’re saying,’ said Alice slowly, getting her head around the conversation, ‘that the actions by the owners of Netherby Hall throughout time will be recorded by them, but if Matt looks deeper, he may find a different story according to the rest of the population.’

‘Yes,’ said Beth as if the question were directed to her. ‘That’s what I was meaning.’

‘There are different ways of interpreting the same story,’ agreed Paul. ‘It’s often a case of perspective. Matt has to learn how to trust the material he finds.’

They all looked at Matt who looked as if he felt the burden of history and all the souls who have passed through it resting on his shoulders.

‘That’s quite a responsibility,’ said Alice, admiring her son more than usual. He gave her a weak smile.

~~~

‘Thank you for agreeing to see me Joan,’ said Mr Higgins as he ushered her to one of the large brown leather chairs opposite his desk in his office in Netherby. His short blond dark suited secretary, Judith, closed the door behind her. His desk was a large oak table, inlaid with well worn brown leather. On it he had a blotter pad in front of him, to his right a silver framed photograph of his wife and two teenaged children taken three years earlier on a holiday to Madeira, on his left a small anglepoise lamp with a brown shade and brass pull cord, at the back a cigar box containing various pens and pencils, a note pad and a complex telephone.

Benjamin Higgins was a solicitor of medium height and build, although little of this showed behind his desk, his hair was neat and tidily combed, but most importantly he had a cheerful good natured face which put his clients at their ease. His sombre black suit and, for him, extravagant yellow tie told of a man who took his business seriously.

Joan Henderson, housekeeper at Netherby Hall, sat on the proffered chair apprehensively. She knew what he was going to tell her and did not like it at all. She glanced around the office. Although she had heard it described, she had never been in it before not having needed the services of a solicitor so far in her life and had hardly even spoken to him.

The room reminded her of a small version of the Hall library; rows of legal books lined one wall on shelves and she momentarily wondered who dusted them. The frosted glass of the window behind Mr Higgins looked onto the street and momentarily went dark if a lorry rumbling by. The walls either side of the window had imposing portraits of previous Mr Higgins, but imposing portraits had little effect on Joan. The other two walls had filing cabinets with loose files scattered on top of them as well as a spider plant doing its best to make the room look homely. The room smelled on stale perfume, old paper, and recently sprayed jasmine air freshener.

‘I must apologise for this taking such a long time to come to my attention,’ Mr Higgins began, his deep soft voice barely above a discreet whisper. Joan leaned forward, her hands folded across her lap. She wore her only suit, a greenish Tweed affair long out of fashion.

‘My clerk came across the letter when looking through Mr Tindall’s private papers from the Hall,’ he said fingering the document in question; a sheet of pale blue writing paper with Cedric Tindall’s distinctive sloping bold handwriting in black ink.

‘My question is what do you want me to do about it?’ he asked softly.

Joan sat completely still and totally silent looking into Mr Higgins hazel green eyes for a full minute, barely breathing. ‘I don’t want you to do anything about it, unless you have to. Since you ask, I want everything to stay as it is,’ she said, equally softly, but firmly.

Mr Higgins’ left white eyebrow rose to meet his white fringe. ‘I take it you don’t wish me to inform Mr Gibson.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Joan sharply sitting even straighter, but then smiled. ‘I see no point.’ Mr Higgins sat forward in his chair, rested his elbows on the table steepling his fingers like a benevolent priest.

‘Mr Tindall gave me the Gatehouse,’ she added.

‘I am aware of that … I wish he had done it properly at the time, but I can rectify that … posthumously, as it were,’ said Mr Higgins with a tone of disapproval.

Joan stiffened. ‘I want everything to stay as it is,’ she repeated.

‘I understand your reluctance, but more things have to be considered than your personal feelings … if you don’t mind my saying so,’ he said, his eyes looking straight at her.

Joan looked as if she did mind him saying so. ‘I want nothing to change,’ she said clearly. ‘May I have the letter?’

Mr Higgins looked at it and reluctantly handed it over, together with the envelope. The envelope, also in Cedric’s hand simply read To be opened on the occasion of my death. ‘I have taken a copy for our records,’ he said steadily as Joan took it from him. She shot him a hostile look and then smiled, shook his hand and left his office. Mr Higgins sat back in his chair, rested his chin on his right hand and thought deeply.

Chapter two

Matt meets William

On a sunny morning a couple of weeks later in mid October, Paul was still making efforts to convince Matt that working for a doctorate on the Netherby Hall project was a good idea. Matt’s rather weak objections were it would involve leaving home and he would be working for a millionaire. Having done a good job on the windmill research, Matt hoped to continue investigating the histories of other local Gatesby families and felt his neighbours would support him seeing they had already discovered so much about their ancestors. If he had to get a job at the Council to subsidize it, that is what he would do. The project the professor was suggesting would be starting from scratch and working with people he did not know.

‘If you want to be a proper research historian you’re going to have to go to new places and work with different people. You can’t spend the rest of your life researching Gatesby,’ Paul pointed out reasonably as they stood in the driveway of Faraday Cottage leaning against Alice’s blue Ford Fiesta.

‘I know,’ replied Matt studying the pattern of his trainer laces, ‘but everything I did for the windmill was with friends; Beth and Mum, you and the others. The whole village got involved and it was fun. I don’t know how people in Netherby will react to me asking for information or private letters,’ he stated, making small figure eights with his toe in the dirt.

‘Matt, you did a great job. Mr Gibson is keen to support you otherwise he wouldn’t have agreed to talk to you and I’m quite sure people in Netherby will be just as pleased to find out about their ancestors as those of Gatesby were.’ Paul looked at the pattern Matt had produced on the dusty drive and added. ‘I can come and hold your hand if it’d make you feel better.’

Matt looked up sharply into Paul’s grinning face and scrunched his nose. ‘I’ll be all right, thanks professor,’ he said smiling. He finally got into the car, drove through Gatesby, passed the church and the turn to Grange Farm then through Willington on to Netherby nine miles further still. He had not been to Netherby since an afternoon bike ride with his elder brother David when in his early teens. He drove slowly trying to remember where the entrance to Netherby Hall was and found it to the right on the way out of the far side of town.

He drove through the open wrought iron entrance gates hung from sturdy stone pillars surmounted by menacing looking eagles with partially folded wings. To the left stood the Gatehouse, an odd shaped building, slightly larger than the double cottage he lived in at Gatesby. Pale smoke curled wistfully from one of the large chimneys, circling then vanishing into the clear blue autumn sky. A small black and white cat was sitting in the bay window, watching sparrows hopping around on the path. As he drove by he saw a small, mousy haired woman in a blue housecoat hanging out washing in the back garden.

The driveway wound through fields dotted with spreading oak and horse chestnut