Vixen

By Phil Churchill

The Orbury Golf Club remains in crisis as it comes face to face with its new owner. Who is she and what does her claim on the estate have to do with the crashed German bomber and the identity of the unknown airmen? How will the new earl pay back his loans? Can the club survive this latest threat to its existence and what does it all mean for Jim Chives, club secretary?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phil Churchill
• Release date: Apr 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224781669

Phil Churchill

Phil Churchill lives in Surrey with his wife Tana and has two sons, Daniel and Jake. He is a keen single figure handicap golfer and was Club Captain at Surrey Downs golf course and co-founder and chairman of the Surrey Hills Golf League for whom he wrote the popular monthly golf column, The Hacker (which was also edited into a monthly blog for Golf Monthly). He is also the Managing Director of Steelplan Kitchens Ltd, a successful multi-million pound manufacturing business.

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Vixen

by Phil Churchill

Book 2 of The Orbury Chronicles

Smashwords Edition

VF1SMASH

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright 2024 Phil Churchill

Cover photograph copyright: sw_photo

Discover other titles by Phil Churchill:

The Orbury Way

For all hackers, hookers and shankers

Table of Contents

The Orbury Information

Prologue

SECTION 1: THE FRONT NINE

Chapter 1: End of an Era

Chapter 2: The Last Post

Chapter 3: Lady Levell

Chapter 4: Home Guard

Chapter 5: The Tods

Chapter 6: First Blood

Chapter 7: War Graves Commission

Chapter 8: Chain Gang

Chapter 9: Bandits at Four O’clock

SECTION 2: THE BACK NINE

Chapter 10: Guardian Caddie

Chapter 11: Divot

Chapter 12: The Beginning of the End

Chapter 13: The Diary of Earls

Chapter 14: Puppet Master

Chapter 15: Collateral Damage

Chapter 16: The Levell Trust

Chapter 17: Eighteen Labours

Chapter 18: Pairs Better Ball

SECTION 3: THE 19th HOLE

Chapter 19: Love Triangle

Thank You

About the Author

Acknowledgements

The Orbury Estate

Earl Orbury - President

The Golf Committee

Jim Chives - Club Secretary

Spencer Cartwright - Club Captain

Ian (Minty) Fresh - Vice Captain

Brian St. John-James (BSJ) - Committee Secretary

Colin Stimpson - Social Secretary

Charles Easter (Bunny) - Handicap Secretary

Bill Muir - Competition Secretary

Estate Staff

Brunswick - Steward

Vic Peters - Golf Professional

Cedric Abeline - Head Chef

Clarence Llewellyn - Master Housekeeper

Dave Marsden - Head Greenkeeper

Bert Pamphlett - Gamekeeper

Eric Styles - Estates Manager

Barry Jones - Tenant Farm Manager

Prologue

Vertical blinds swung lazily upon wafts of an occasional breeze being admitted by an open window. As these pendular flaps parted and closed, flashes of daylight lit up the gloomy room, illuminating the bed and the static form mummified by starched unmoving sheets. The sound of their movement, a soft rustling, was synchronised with the metallic chink of the bead chains keeping the window coverings in check. Together, the two sounds formed a rhythmic beat with the staccato beeps and chirps emitting from a threatening huddle of machines that peered down onto the stricken bed, hunched over it like mourners at a graveside glowering down on the deceased. The only illusion of movement in the room came from the errant sunbeams that managed to find their way past the blinds, whilst the rest of the room may as well be carved from stone. Time though, crept on inexorably, its passing regulated by the incessant hiss of assisted air that managed to break the monotony into segments.

Along with movement and light, the open windows ushered autumnal coolness into the hot stuffy room. A much-needed respite from the cloying heat that lurked in every room and corridor of the large building, despite the seasonal chill beyond its walls.

Beside the bed, a woman was dozing. An unopened newspaper lay across her lap, its pages still un-thumbed, and its central fold still crisp. The only creases in sight were down the centre of her smart cream trousers, twinned with a dark blue blouse that matched her high-heeled shoes. Long, straight blond hair draped over one eye, whilst her head lolled to the side in repose as she slumbered against the high wing of her chair.

Unnoticed by the sleeping woman, a dark smudge leant towards the glass pain in the door before morphing into the blurred features of a face. Slowly, the door handle turned, and as the door opened an inch, the change in room pressure created a sudden gust of wind sending the vertical blinds flying inwards, banishing the mirk in a blaze of luminescence before the weighted flaps crashed back against the windows in a clanking volley, waking the sleeping woman with a start.

I-I'm so sorry, blurted a man’s voice, as she bolted upright, her shocked eyes bulging as she scanned the room in a daze. I didn't know you were sleeping, went on the man, relieved to see her relax as the familiar surroundings calmed her, and she recognised the identity of the face peeking around the edge of the door.

Don’t worry Frank, come in, I was only dozing.

Sorry, he repeated instinctively, I, er, just wanted to check in before I left, make sure everything was alright. His nervous grin exposed two large front teeth separated by a wide gap.

Everything is just as it always is, she sighed in reply.

Oh good, I m-mean not g-good obviously, w-what with the er, and the-, he panicked, his hand motioning frantically towards the bed. I didn't mean to s-suggest th-tha-,

It's alright, I know what you mean, and I appreciate your concern, I really do, she replied softly to soothe him.

All he could manage to do in response was nod mutely a few times, and when he tried to open his mouth to speak, all that came out was a silence that did nothing to banish the awkwardness in the room.

Is there something else? she asked to try and break the silence.

Y-yes, he stammered, trying to summon up the courage to go on. However, his face betrayed the signs of a raging internal battle between nerves and confidence, the former of which seemed to come out on top, as his shoulders sagged and a further silence followed. Though from somewhere, he managed to draw on some hidden confidence to force himself on. I m-mean no, I er, I-I just thought I'd look in b-before I go, he managed at last.

Thank you, she replied, that is sweet of you. Goodnight Frank.

Goodnight, see you tomorrow? he asked hopefully.

Of course, just the same as every day.

He smiled briefly, before softly closing the door behind him, and she watched his distorting silhouette pass down the length of the ribbed glass panels.

Once the sound of his retreating footsteps had been lost to the distant ends of the corridor, she glanced up at the silent clock on the wall, its second hand moving noiselessly on its never-ending orbit, before slowly lifting herself out of the deep chair to start her nightly routine.

First, she peeled back the top sheet, leaving it trapped under the end of the mattress. Then, she shook out the cotton in long, slow ripples before letting it billow back down to rest. Reaching across the bed, she pulled it up tight and smoothed down its surface, before tucking the sheet in at the sides. Next, she took the wooden handled hairbrush from the top of the adjacent cabinet and began to pull it through the long silvery hair in slow, gentle sweeps.

Leaving the bedside, she walked over to the far side of the room and reached through the cloth blades to close the window beyond, carefully ensuring that each blind was hanging evenly as she drew upon the beaded pull cord. With all-natural light obscured from the sterile room, the space was plunged into gloom, the only points of illumination coming from the small electronic screens on the medical apparatus, and the glow of the corridor lights through the glass.

Moving back towards the bed, she began to go put away the collection of personal items that were laid out in neat rows upon the small bedside table. Firstly, a pair of glasses were folded back into their case, then the sculpted tissue flowering out of a petal printed box was pushed back under transparent flaps, before a pair of unworn earrings were placed into their soft silk containers. Lastly, she leant over the bed, and with practiced fingers unclipped the small clasp to lift away the gold chain, the weight of its pendant allowing it to dangle and twist as she suspended it from the tips of thumb and forefinger. Round and round it spun, its golden surface glinting with each revolution as its carved faces caught the light from the monitors. Eventually, its inertia was exhausted, allowing it to slowly come to a stop, and she looked down mournfully at the remnants of a gold coin that had been cut in half. Its surface had been drilled with a small hole to allow the semi-circular form to be hung upon a chain.

Lost in the object, she stood in silence, as mute clock hands crept on and the metronomic beeps from the medical equipment marked elapsing time. Shaking herself out of her reverie, she laid the necklace out on the bedside cabinet so that the chain was untangled, and its cut pendant was sitting heads-up, before picking up the newspaper. Out of habit, she turned straight to the announcements section towards the back of the edition and scanned down the printed ink lines.

It was such a routine action, undertaken daily, week after week, month after month, that she almost missed it. In fact, she had already taken her eyes off the page, and was folding the paper back along its central crease when she froze, leaving the opposing leaves of the centre-spread hovering inches apart, before she cautiously re-opened the paper. With trepidation this time, she carefully re-read each line, slowly working her way back down the page until her eyes came to rest on the words they had been waiting to read for all those years. Her mind was sent reeling, and she had to go back over the words repeatedly until, eventually, their meaning began to sink in:

The executor of the Last Will and Testament of the tenth Earl Orbury hereby summons the purchaser of the Orbury Estate to a meeting at midday tomorrow at The Orbury Hall to take possession of their asset.

The words sucked the air from her lungs, and she sat gasping for breath, her hands shaking violently until she managed to take some large, deep breaths before scrunching up the edges of the paper.

It took a few minutes before she was able to open her eyes and turn to the shape in the bed, warm tears running down her cheeks.

Why now?

SECTION 1: THE FRONT NINE

1 - End of an era

The glass, so recently clutched in Chives’s grasp, slipped easily from his fingers and smashed to the floor. Upon contact with the ground, it exploded, blasting crystal shrapnel in all directions, unleashing its former contents to splatter anything, and everything, within its range. The worn bare floorboards received a liberal coating, as did the black trousers and immaculate white polished shoes of the club secretary, as he stood there aghast. The noise of the receptacle’s disintegration, however, was entirely lost beneath the tumult of pandemonium and uproar.

A woman! gasped BSJ, his beard bristling and his eyes bulging on storks, bursting out of his hirsute face as the high tap, tap, taping continued to get louder and closer.

It's an outrage, bellowed Charles Easter, it shouldn't be allowed!

It isn't! exclaimed Bill Muir in reply, at least not since the War.

Everyone, except Lamplighter and the newly entitled Earl Orbury, were up on their feet, screaming blue murder in hoarse rasps, as the normally unflappable Brunswick came running into the room.

I'm s-sorry Sir, he blurted, before he had even crossed the threshold, I tried to stop her, but she wouldn't have it. The steward’s calm, suave exterior had vanished entirely, leaving him cowering under the inexorable advance of the dreadful sound as it homed in on the room with the unerring stubbornness of a heat seeking missile. I didn't know what to do! he screamed, as Chives stood there aghast, his mouth open and jaw sagging.

Don't let her in, flapped Spencer Cartwright, the captain.

That's right, took up Easter, grasping at any hint of possible defence, barricade the door.

There isn't a bloody door, threw in Lamplighter casually from his seat.

Don't you start Lightoller, slurred the earl, I told you women and children first, you must have missed one you buffoon.

Quick, hide, panicked BSJ, as he tried to squeeze his ample frame under the committee table.

Stop her, Brunswick, implored Easter. A woman in the Orbury is bad enough, but not in the Committee Room.

Good God, the old man will be turning in his gwave.

Seventy years... the war, repeated Bill pointlessly, as the footsteps came to a sudden halt.

To a man they snapped their heads in the direction of the southwest tribune, the sudden silence wrenching the breath from their lungs and freezing them on the spot. As if the music had stopped, they stood with arms and legs immobilised, mimicking the frozen poses of the gods and goddesses whose statues adorned the alcoves down the length of the Committee Room.

It was the captain who capitulated first, daring to raise his thumb and gingered eyebrows in the hope that the cessation of footsteps somehow meant that the monster, who previously lurked just outside the room, had vanished. But no sooner had he caught the eye of his nearest fellow committee member than the clopping of the high heels started up again. However, they were slower this time, which only managed to increase the collective agony until, at last, the figure of a woman came walking into view.

Femina flippinarum, muttered the lone voice of the vice-captain.

Good morning gentlemen, she greeted.

All eyes, both flesh and marble, seemed to lock onto the figure of the club secretary, waiting for him to make a move.

This is an outrage, bellowed Chives at last, finding his tongue, as he straightened his spine and stood up to his full height in a desperate, and somewhat late, attempt to establish his authority. This establishment has historic rules and traditions that are the very backbone of its existence.

Here, here, mumbled the rest of the committee gutturally, managing to emerge from their collective torpor. A few even found that they had managed to regain control of their own movements, and duly stamped their feet in support.

And you, Madam, have broken the biggest rule of them all. Namely-,

I know, no women, she interrupted, before Chives had the chance to pass sentence.

Precisely! he snapped back, and, if it hadn't been for Hitler, then that rule might have stretched back unbroken for nigh on a century. Yet, you just waltz in here with a total disregard for all those years and everything that the Orbury stands for. I must insist that you leave. At once, he demanded.

So, I am the first woman to enter for almost a hundred years, she mused, ignoring the secretary's request entirely.

Wrong, replied Chives, with a huge satisfying grin spread across his face at managing to notch up a small win. History obviously isn't your strong point. Never heard of Adolf Hitler? he teased, it was his fault that we had to allow nurses into these hallowed walls during the war. Try sixty-seven years, he corrected. Now Brunswick, kindly escort the lady from the premises.

The steward walked forward nervously, half-heartedly raising his arms to try and usher the intruder from the room. However, he was at a complete loss on where exactly to place his hands to help the interloper on her way, opting instead to just turn back helplessly and face the club secretary as the lady stood firm.

I'm afraid your butler has already tried that manoeuvre at the front door, she stated coolly.

Ah, wrong again I'm afraid, came back Chives. Brunswick is the club steward.

Oh, I would have thought that a butler was far more in keeping for an earl. That is presuming, of course, that I have the honour of addressing the eleventh Earl Orbury.

Oh dear, wrong again, I fear you are starting to make a habit of it. Jim Chives, club secretary, he introduced himself grandly.

I am Earl Orbury, came a far voice suddenly, and I gave strict instructions that it was women and children first, why did you not leave with the others?

The woman turned to face the far man. The others?

We've been going down for hours, went on the earl, swaying in his seat and his eyes rolling from side to side.

Chives stepped in. It is the shock, he explained.

Over one small woman? she mocked.

Not you, scolded Chives, anger in his face. You might be full of your own importance, but I was referring to the fact that he has lost everything. The hall and the estate that has been the family seat for generations and now, on top of it all, he must confront a-,

Vixen! spat BSJ, causing the woman to widen her eyes at the word.

Quite, went on Chives stiffly. Now, I will ask you one more time. Politely. Please leave. You can go and tell whomever it is you represent, no doubt some illustrious client of yours, that they can come and do their own dirty work. We will not deal with... well, you heard my esteemed colleague.

I suppose I really shouldn’t have expected anything else, and yet, I regret to say that a small part of me, some teeny-weeny bit of me, did harbour hope that this would actually turn out to be not as difficult as I had always expected, but alas, she said with a sigh, it seems it is not to be. With that, she started to walk confidently towards the long table, scattering men in all directions, before coming to halt at the end of the table and seating herself at the chair placed at its head.

There was a sound of inrushing air as men gasped.

B-But that's my seat, bemoaned Chives.

Was your seat, she replied. You see, I am not here on behalf of a client. I am the client, and gentlemen, I see by your announcement in yesterday’s Times that it is I who now owns Orbury Hall.

Wuddy hell.

She was dressed in an immaculate, slim-cut, blue two-piece suit, the skirt hanging just below her knees and her feet shod in matching high heels. The jacket had two rows of buttons running up the front to a low-cut collar around her thin neck. Her blond hair was held up at the back with a clasp, leaving the front fringe to hang loose from a centre parting, the longer strands at the side hanging down to her cheeks. Chives looked on aghast, as she gently hung her bright red handbag over the back of the chair, placed her briefcase on the table in front of her, before folding her hands across her lap and looking straight down the table at the empty seats.

Shall we begin? she asked, just as the sound of hurried footsteps carried into the long room. The committee exchanged curious glances until the familiar figure of the solicitor came hurtling through the tribune.

Apologies for being late, said Pinkerton, skidding to a halt. He was a fit young man and the run had barely raised his pulse. However, I think you’ll agree that my tardiness was well worth it, he went on, as he started to fish around in his case, not noticing the warning expressions on the faces of the other men. I've been rummaging around in our vaults all morning, and I finally managed to find some papers on this supposed sale. What's more, I think there might be a way that you can stall them on the takeover for a little while. It won’t hold them at bay for long, but it might just buy you a couple of weeks. But first things first, I have a name for our mystery buyer! It's-,

Mrs Mallory Beckett, finished the woman for him. The solicitor looked to the end of the table and then did a double take between the standing figure of the secretary and the seated woman.

That's right, he agreed weakly.

Which means you have me at a disadvantage, she went on, you have my name, but I, not yours.

Gathering his wits, the young man glanced at his watch and realised it was past midday. Of course, he said smoothly. You saw the announcement in The Times.

I did indeed Mr...?

Pinkerton. James Pinkerton of Raffles, Pinkerton & Daughter, solicitors to the Earls Orbury since 1715. Pleased to meet you.

Really? replied Mrs Beckett, then I am sorry to say that you are the only one. If I were to flog their own analogy to death, then I seem to have found myself cornered by a pack of hounds.

And if you had even the slightest shred of knowledge about this place, then you would know that cornering such a beast would be the very last thing we would do, retorted Chives, before his friend added his weight to the fightback.

Not a single hair of my cunning friend the fox be hurt upon these lands of Orbury, said Bill, raising his bushy black eyebrows as if their very weight would carry the argument.

Words uttered by King George I himself, spoke the secretary grandly.

Meus dolosus amicus, stated Ian Fresh, with as much authority as he could summon, turning the double act into a triple act.

Words etched on that statue, said Chives, pointing toward the northwest tribune, and spoken to the first Earl Orbury.

My cunning friend, replied Mrs Beckett.

You know the club motto? asked Charles Easter, the handicap secretary, creasing his brow in surprise.

History may not be my strong subject, as the secretary so kindly pointed out, but I am not without education entirely.

A Latin scholar? asked the vice-captain in hope, taking his seat at the table.

Or she knows more about us than she's letting on, chipped in Chives.

Puer puellam vexat, she responded.

The vice-captain let out a guffaw. Quite! Oh, very good, yes, very good.

Perhaps once Julius Caesar and Cleopatra have finished playing footsie under the table, we can get back to the matter in hand, said Chives sternly. Namely, the fact that the lady was just leaving!

Oh dear, must we go round and round in circles? I thought we’d already arrived at that particular juncture a few minutes ago, sighed Mrs Beckett. And for those of you who are perhaps of a more senior disposition then I repeat, I own Orbury Hall now. So, I suggest you all sit down and get over the apparent ghastly shock so we can get on with the matter in hand. I have another appointment to go to in an hour, and one thing you can rely on is that I am always punctual.

The members of the committee began chuntering away between themselves until, one by one, they slowly began to drift back towards their seats, leaving Chives as the last man standing, his back turned resolutely away from the committee table. As he looked out of the central window, he had a perfect view of the tenth hole, flanked on either side by the two western wings of the hall. Beyond the deserted tee, and over his beloved lake, sat the empty green. The day was becoming gloomy, the fast-moving grey clouds that were darkening from pigeon grey to crow black disclosed a northerly wind that scuttled down the length of the lake, bringing the threat of rain in from the coast.

I presume it would be too much to ask for you to put a light on, seeing as you are the last man standing? enquired Mrs Beckett, to the russet clad back, which stood unflinching in the face of the question. I thought as much, she went on, after the silent answer. So Mr Pinkerton, do I take it that I have you to thank for the kind invitation? You are the executer of the will?

Yes indeed, replied the solicitor. Firstly I-,

Think we should discuss this little matter of you having found a way to stall matters, interrupted Mrs Beckett, stopping the young man in his tracks. Been scouring through the annals of legal precedence for some technicality, have we?

No of course not, I, er, you must understand this has come as something of a shock to my client, I was merely hoping to ensure a slow, patient process so that all parties can take stock of their position.

Patience? You ask me for patience? Is seventy years not patience enough for you? On the contrary, Mr Pinkerton, we must forge forward with all haste. We have been waiting for long enough! snapped the new owner.

Seventy years is nothing, said Chives firmly, turning back to face the table. Not in comparison to the long and illustrious history of the Orbury. Do you play golf Mrs Beckett? He spat her name with disgust. No, I thought not, he said in response to a shake of her head. Because if you did, then you would know that patience has nothing to do with time. Instead, it is about self-control. About keeping yourself together when things transpire against you. Every golfer in the land learns patience. Patience, when the wind triples your fade into a slice. Patience, when your ball comes to rest in a deep divot left behind by a player ahead of you. Patience, when your ball defies the laws of gravity to horseshoe around the cup and slingshot three feet away from the hole. So, when you come striding in here, all high and mighty, and teetering on your ridiculous stilettos, it doesn’t faze us. The Orbury has faced challenges before. The sixth earl dared to rip up the greens and fairways and paid for it with his life! That was over fifteen decades ago, oh yes, golf has certainly taught us all about patience Mrs Beckett. We, and the rest of the golf membership, the One Hundred, have a certain way; it is called The Orbury Way.

As soon as the secretary had finished, the room was filled with the sound of clapping as the men rallied at his words. But their hands stopped in midair as they looked to find that their visitor was clapping along as well, until eventually, the slapping of her delicate palms was the only noise left to reverberate alone in the large echoing room.

Bravo Mr Chives, very well put, she said. It makes the very hairs on the back of one’s neck stand on edge.

Don’t mock me, warned Chives.

I wouldn’t dream of it Mr Secretary, she replied drily. Now, shall we get on with the formalities Mr Pinkerton, I presume that you have followed the instructions faithfully? He nodded. And you have the inventory?

Of course, replied the solicitor, with a nervous glance towards Earl Orbury.

I trust that all was in order? asked Mrs Beckett, holding out her hand for the document. Her question went unanswered, as the men kept their nervous eyes fixed on the papers as they were passed, from hand to hand, up towards the top of the table.

Well? she asked impatiently, as she opened her pillar box red handbag and took out a pair of black rimmed spectacles, perching them on the end of her nose in order to read. I can’t see a thing, she complained, looking up at the redundant brass chandeliers. Can we please have those lights on?

No one moved a muscle. I see, she sighed, it’s going to be like that is it. She scraped back her chair, the screeching noise making them all wince, as she strode around the room looking for the switch. At last, she found it to the side of one of the alcoves housing a statue of a female nude. BSJ could stand it no longer, and he scrunched his eyes shut to screen out the imminent continuation of gloom.

Mrs Beckett flicked the switch. Nothing happened.

Are the bulbs out? she asked, followed by the now customary mute response. Perhaps it’s a fuse, and with that, she strode from the room. The men sat there unflinching, as they listened to her trot from room to room, imagining the impotence of the little switches as they were triggered one after another.

Eventually, after an agonising delay, she came full circle, entering the room via the opposite tribune. She came to a halt beside the marble fox and lent against its white sculpted fur.

Not a single light working, she said softly, though the words carried easily to all. Not a trace of electricity in sight. What’s more, beyond this room, there’s not a single human being to be seen either. No staff, no members, no-one bar the statues. Perhaps it is time someone told me what the hell is going on here?

There was no reply.

Earl Orbury? she prompted.

I told you, replied the earl, we’re going down. Does nobody listen to me? I’ve told you that already.

Mr Chives? The secretary had already turned back to face the window.

Gentlemen? she entreated collectively to the rest of the table, walking slowly back down the room, attempting to lock eyes with each man in turn, only to be met with a downcast face or renewed interest in the ceiling. That was until she reached the face of the committee secretary. He made the mistake of looking back at her, inducing panic.

They cut off the electwic! he blurted out before anyone had the chance to stop him.

An administrative error, shouted Chives instantly, in a redundant attempt to drown out BSJ.

What’s wrong, have you not been paying the bills? she teased, coming face to face with the club secretary.

As I said, it is merely an administrative error, he replied tersely.

What sort of error?

It is nothing that concerns you.

Try me.

Chives paused, deciding whether to elaborate. The untimely death of the old earl, he went on eventually, means that we did not get the chance to locate the exact whereabouts of all the reserves. It is only a temporary problem.

But in the meantime, you have no power, not to mention no staff, have they not been paid I wonder? she speculated, turning back to face the committee secretary.

On stwike… he blurted uncontrollably.

Yes, thank you Brian, scolded Chives, trying to stop the big man from blurting out their every secret. It is only a matter of time before we find them.

But I would have thought important information such as this would have been stated in his will, she said, unable to resist extending their discomfort.

As did we, agreed Chives grudgingly.

Then perhaps there are no mythical reserves.

Well, that’s where you are wrong, hit back Chives. We have the bank statements. Every time the bank balance got low, he would transfer in a top up. Proof.

Proof maybe, she shrugged, but not much good to you if he had a little nest egg squirrelled away for a rainy day but omitted to tell anyone else of its whereabouts.

As if on