A Crowded Coffin(18)

‘Good evening, Lara.’ Her audience almost shivered at the frost in her voice. ‘You look stunning. When did you come home? I’m so glad you could make it this time; I think you’ve missed the last few Rotary dinners, haven’t you? What was it, on your honeymoon, or something, each time?’

‘How sweet you look, Edith,’ came the cooing response. ‘I suppose that’s one of your grandmother’s dresses? I’ve been home a few days, relaxing and catching up with old friends. I must circulate now, though. I know I’ve been monopolizing Rory but I just had to tell him how pleased we all are to see him safe. We’ll have to take the greatest care of him, of course.’ She swung round and astonished Rory by brushing his cheek with her lips and, as Harriet observed with detached interest, she managed to brush against his jacket with her elegant and ample (enhanced, surely?) cleavage. Rory, Harriet thought, looked intrigued but wary and cast a hasty sidelong glance at Edith, obviously reluctant to be the meat in that particular sandwich.

Harriet smiled at him as they were summoned to dinner and she tucked him safely in between Edith and herself, with Sam on her other side.

‘Are you settling in?’ she asked. ‘It can be quite daunting moving to such a small village. Everyone knows everything about everybody else, even if they get it all wrong, which, of course, they always do. Sam will find out for himself soon; he’s completing on my neighbour’s house in a matter of days and once he’s here, the village will pounce and he’ll find himself on this committee, and that working party, till he’s hiding from the front door bell.’

Sam grinned across her. ‘I’ll need to get some work done first,’ he told them, ‘so it’s very generous of Harriet to offer to put me up while I sort out a bit of decorating. The departing owner’s taste is too pink and cottagey style for my liking, but it’s only cosmetic, so I’ll get in and just slap a coat of emulsion on. Thank goodness she didn’t go the whole hog and treat the beams with that stuff that looks like black treacle; that’s a devil to get rid of. I’ll want to replace the horrible modern lattice windows too; they’re completely wrong for an unpretentious cottage, but that can wait till I’m in. At least the ceilings are fairly high so I won’t be knocking myself unconscious on a regular basis.’ He nodded briefly. ‘I love Winchester but it’ll be good to get right out into the country, peace and quiet and nothing much happening.’

Harriet gave an exclamation and started to speak, then shook her head and frowned as Sam looked at her in surprise. ‘Not now,’ was all she would say. ‘But we do need to talk later on.’

While they ate, Rory asked Harriet about the village and its inhabitants and she sketched in a little family history and local gossip. ‘You know there’s a pretty widespread rumour circulating that there’s oil to be found under the land. Speculation is rife that this is the reason this anonymous buyer wants it, so they say.’

‘Oil? You’re kidding.’ He stared at her, his mouth open. ‘This isn’t Texas, or the Middle East.’

‘I know.’ She looked sympathetic. ‘But there’s a history of oil all along the south coast, you know, and inland as well. It dates right back to the Romans who were involved in shale extraction. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Wych Farm? At Kimmeridge in Dorset, not that far away. It’s been producing I don’t know how many barrels of crude oil for some years. It’s not that fantastic a suggestion, though I’ve no idea if there’s any truth in it here. There was an exploratory bore hole at Chilworth, near Southampton, not so many years ago and that’s only a few miles down the road.’

‘But they wouldn’t want to sell, would they?’ he asked. ‘I suppose the money would make a huge difference to them, though. I get the impression they’re not exactly rolling in money.’

‘No, of course they’re not. Who is these days? Farmers always grumble, it’s their default position, but there’s no denying that farming’s been in the doldrums for decades and on top of that, Walter rather lost heart when Richard, Edith’s father, died.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘Walter’s grandfather was the one who nearly bankrupted the farm in the 1929 crash and they’ve struggled to keep afloat ever since. About ten years ago Walter handed over the day-to-day running of the larger farm to a manager who lives over the hill, the other end of the village. Mercifully Hampshire wasn’t affected by the foot-and-mouth outbreak ten years ago or more, and the Locksley herd of Aberdeen Angus is becoming internationally renowned but it’s not a get-rich-quick enterprise.’