The Captain and the Cricketer Read online

  “Of course you can!” George laughed, as though this was the silliest jape in the world. “Into the bin, on with the day. Really, Fitz, do you take everything in life so seriously?”

  Henry pulled himself back up to his feet and carefully folded the letter into its envelope. He balled his fists onto his hips and glared at the near-naked television personality on his lawn.

  “Longley Parva Manor is at stake—the very ground you’re stood on is at risk of being snatched away by a City boy with gelled hair, and you’re telling me I should just lob this letter into the nearest bin? What planet do you live on, George?”

  “Bloody hell, Fitz.” George plucked the letter from Henry’s hand and cast his glance over it. “Remember that time he stole your lunch when we were nine and I bopped him on the nose? He’s stealing your lunch again, get over there and bop him yourself!”

  “When he stole my lunch, he didn’t recruit the most ruthless firm of solicitors in Sussex as intermediaries. As much as I would dearly love to see him bopped on the nose again, I don’t quite think this can be resolved as easily as a playground tussle.”

  Henry held out his hand, waiting for George to return the letter. George shrugged and placed it in Henry’s hand with exaggerated care. Then he stooped to pick up his discarded clothes. Henry wondered how anyone so close to being naked could be so collected, not self-conscious and apologetic as was the British way. Strutting about as though he was in Saint-Tropez rather than Sussex, water trailing in rivulets down his—

  No.

  Not cricket at all.

  What did they do in the Army to take the lanky youth Henry remembered and turn him into a broad-shouldered, muscular—

  George had turned, his back facing Henry. And Henry saw, across those wide shoulders, scattered scars.

  No one could have avoided the photograph. George was in the middle of the image, a massive corona of blasted earth exploding behind him, a child in his arms. It had been circulated far and wide, across newspapers and magazines and television screens, and had catapulted him to celebrity as a reluctant hero. But Henry had not realized that had also been the moment that had scarred him.

  Because where else had those marks across George’s back come from?

  George suddenly spun on his bare feet and met Henry’s gaze. He had seen the scars on TV, of course, because George was never shy about shedding his shirt in the pursuit of good television, but he didn’t remember them being so clear. And Henry would have remembered, not that he had been looking, not at all.

  Henry took a deep breath and looked down at the letter in his hand. “Best get on. And don’t you dare let me catch you swimming in my lake again—I don’t want outside broadcast units churning up my flowerbeds.”

  “I shall leave you to your letter.” George sniffed. “And your lake, sir.”

  Chapter Five

  Longley Parva Old Hall stood in all its brash glory on the edge of the village. Somehow, despite the intervention of Henry, the WI, the vicar, the parish council, the primary school, the Rotary Club and an MP, planning permission had been granted for the red brick monstrosity.

  Ed Belcher had deliberately based his mighty edifice—the first building that anyone arriving at the village would see—on the Georgian façade of Henry’s home. The choice of red brick was a modernization, however, not to mention an abomination. Try as Ed might, though, Henry’s house was the real thing, with creaking wooden floorboards and, behind the stucco frontage and early nineteenth-century tinkering, a Tudor layout. Ed certainly didn’t have a priest hole, but then again, Henry didn’t have underfloor heating, reliable electrics or draught-proof windows.

  A brick wall ran for some distance along the main road, and Henry finally reached the gates. He pressed the intercom and, from the crackling he heard, someone at the other end picked up.

  “Hello, is Ed there? It’s Henry—I need a word.”

  He’d begun to wish he’d rung ahead, but on his walk up he’d been on the phone to Jonathan, who ran the surgery with him. Poor Jonathan would now have a very busy morning indeed, but what could Henry do? Let Ed swipe his house out from underneath him?

  “You’ve reached Mr. Belcher, who is this?” Ed’s voice, cocksure and bluff.

  “Henry. It’s Henry Fitzwalter.”

  The intercom clicked off. Seconds later there was a dull mechanical clunk and the wicket gate swung open at a leisurely pace. In the turning circle Ed’s red Ferrari was being waxed by one of his household staff, a young man wearing enormous headphones and a determined expression.

  Henry gritted his teeth and headed off down the driveway. Young, spindly trees flanked the black tarmac, and straight ahead was Ed’s front door. Henry knocked against the wood-effect panels. The studs in its surface were a medieval affectation at odds with the house’s attempt at Palladian grandeur.

  No one answered. The young man continued to wax the car that cost more than Henry made in a year, humming loudly to the music in his headphones. The wax cloth squeaked on the bonnet until he paused and lifted one earpiece, loud guitars blasting from it.

  “Help you, mate?”

  “Henry Fitzwalter, here to see Ed Belcher. He’s just let me in through the gates—do you know why he’s not answering the door?” Henry banged again, this time pounding his fist. From inside, Ed’s pack of wolfhounds—the lord of the manor’s gun dogs, of course—barked and howled, but still he didn’t come to the door.

  “He’ll make you wait,” the young man told him with a roll of his eyes. “Count to sixty in your head and the door’ll open. Guarantee it.”

  Then he dropped the earpiece and went back to work.

  One, two, three, four…

  …fifty-eight, fifty-nine—

  “Henry!” Ed pulled the door open. He was back in pinstripes, of course. “Just on my way into town to make a few more millions, blacken a few more balls. What can I do for you?”

  Henry held out the letter. He stared at Ed, trying to assume a stance that would declare Henry Fitzwalter is no pushover and will not stand for your shilly-shallying.

  “You might think this is a rib-tickler of a joke, Ed, but I don’t. Care to explain?”

  “It’s not funny, Henry, for either of us. It’s a bloody mess.” He took a shiny, sleek phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. “I don’t have time to go over it now, but I think you might be living in my house! And your people have been living in my house for two hundred years. What a turn up that is, eh, Henry?”

  “My family have been living in my house for six hundred years. And we’ve been in the village since 1066—it’s in the Domesday Book. A Norman married the daughter of a Saxon baron and they built the castle.” Henry spoke slowly, trying very hard not to pepper his declaration with swearing.

  Ed nodded but it was clear that he wasn’t listening. He was still looking at the screen of the phone he held in his small hand. His thumb moved to tap out a reply and he said, “Tonight, eight o’clock, your house? Or should I say, the house that might be yours? We’ll get it all sorted out, I’m sure!”

  “Yes, I’m sure. The lord of the manor will be in attendance at his Manorial Court to hear your plaint.”

  “We’ll have a Scotch, get our balls out and see who’s bigger.” He jerked his thumb at the man cleaning the car. “Get the pool sifted, I need the Ferrari!”

  “What the hell has cricket—oh, not those kind of balls.” Henry folded the letter away into its marmalade-garlanded envelope. Did he have time to find a competent property lawyer? How bloody expensive would one be, on an evening call in the rural back end of beyond?

  “Eight. We’ll talk serious turkey.” Ed opened the door of the Ferrari and climbed behind the wheel. “It’s not personal, Henry, it’s strictly business.”

  If only I’d let Steph win the sodding jam contest.

  “Of course!”

  “Don’t forget, bring your balls!” Ed pulled the door shut and turned the key. The engine gave a roar like a jet and, with a s
creech of tires, sped off along the driveway and through the gates with a millimeter to spare as they swung open.

  Henry whispered under his breath, “I hope you sodding crash, you monumental turd.” But then he felt guilty, because what if Ed really did crash? He sighed. It was time to go back to his patients.

  “Keep an eye on him,” the young man told Henry, the headphones now around his neck. “He’s slippery.”

  Henry nodded. He knew all about the slipperiness of Ed Belcher.

  Henry was only walking because his Land Rover was being fiddled about with at the garage in Longley Magna. At least it wasn’t raining—although just as he observed this, the clouds began to roll in and a distinct moistness filled the atmosphere. Being caught in a deluge was just what he needed at that moment.

  He turned up his collar and trudged on along the lane. It was so narrow that it had no pavement, and Henry had to stop every time he heard a vehicle coming so that it could pass him. It felt as if every car in the southeast of England was trying to drive along it and the longer Henry took to walk to the surgery, the wetter he would get.

  Toot-toot!

  That bloody noise, the tootling horn that always sounded at the very end of George’s programs. Roll credits, up comes the production logo and toot-toot! Of course, he had only watched George on TV a handful of times, and it was always by accident. He wouldn’t deliberately tune in, after all.

  And a third toot.

  “Fitz!” George wound down the window of the Jaguar. It had been in the family for six decades now, Henry knew, because every ten years the Standish-Brookes family threw it a birthday party. “Gosh, aren’t you wet?”

  “You’ve got a guest slot on the Weather Channel as well now?” Henry pulled the collar of his tweed jacket higher. Wool was naturally waterproof and he would be fine. Lovely and dry. No need to—

  George leaned across and opened the passenger door.

  “Climb on in, vet’n’ry, let’s be ’aving you!”

  Rain dripped off Henry’s hair as he bent to peer into the car. “Aren’t you busy solving a mystery or something? Except you know full well who stole that cup! Bloody hell—do you seriously think that a lift in the rain would somehow make me forget what you did? You’re like Toad of Toad Hall pratting about in this bloody car. I’ll give you toot-toot, you hopeless plonker! Sling your hook, Captain George!”

  “Pride comes before a very wet walk, Fitz!” George pulled the door shut with a clunk. Then he toot-tooted that bloody horn and sped off, splashing Henry with a liberal dose of puddle water as he went.

  Henry spent most of the day in the rain. He borrowed Jonathan’s car and yet still got drenched, standing in farmyards and fields in the downpour. At lunchtime he had half an hour to run home through the rain, grab his baby-soiled jacket and run to the village shop where they would send it to a dry cleaner. It would take a fortnight.

  That left for this evening his second- and third-best tweed, or his pinstripes. His linen suit was too casual and his fourth-best tweed suit was soaked through. He rarely wore pinstripes—there was little opportunity as a vet—but if Ed Belcher was going to ‘talk turkey’ with him, then an appropriate suit of armor was required.

  In fact, Henry could have worn the suit of armor that stood to attention by his front door. But that might be going a bit far. Even if that hadn’t stopped George from clanking about the house in it at Henry’s seventeenth birthday party. Silly sod.

  * * * *

  By half-past seven the rain had stopped and the village shone clean and unblemished in the bright summer evening. Perhaps nothing bad could happen after all.

  As if to prove Henry wrong, the jet-plane roar of a Ferrari could be heard heading up his driveway. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. A cannonade of knocks assaulted Henry’s front door.

  Henry took a moment to compose himself, just as he did when confronted with a raging bullock. Then he rose from the armchair beneath the portrait of William Fitzwalter and strode through to his hallway.

  He opened the door, filling the space with his height and breadth and determination.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve made a million quid, closed down three failing businesses and bought a new Vanquish all in the last eight hours. You’re looking at King Kong’s balls!” Ed stood, hands on hips, his chest puffed out. “So let’s talk houses, shall we?”

  Henry folded his arms. “Go on, then.”

  “Let’s chew this shit, you and me, get our balls out and see who’s got the biggest.” Ed nodded his approval. “Not going to invite me in, Henry?”

  Why must Ed always go on about balls? This was not only the man who wanted to take his home, but the man who had married Steph. What on earth had Steph told him about their awkward encounters in the bedroom? Henry took a deep breath.

  “No need—you won’t be here long, Ed. So you can start by explaining just what the hell is going on.” Henry pondered anew the man’s gelled hair, which made it look as if he were wearing a wig combed from plastic.

  “Okay, I’ll shoot from the hip.” He raised his hands and laughed that cold laugh, not like the boom of amusement Henry had heard at school when Ed had tripped him or pushed him or kicked him across the cloakroom. That had been real jollity, not this fake effort at friendship.

  “I’ve been looking through the family papers and I found something pretty damned interesting. This cricket match our great, great, great-whatever grandads played back when Jane Austen was all the rage.” He prodded Henry in the chest. “They gambled the manor. Your home.”

  Henry’s throat tightened. William Fitzwalter was safe in his portrait above the fireplace in the lounge, resplendent in his immaculate white neckcloth and tailcoat. He had Henry’s chin and Henry’s eyes and Henry’s breadth of chest. But William Fitzwalter had a sparkle in his glance that was extinguished in Henry’s, a recklessness that had been expunged as his DNA had passed down the generations to the sensible, twenty-first-century tweed-wearing vet of Longley Parva. And it was that recklessness that might lose Henry his home.

  “I know—I’ve heard all about it. They gambled and they were very drunk. The winner was never recorded. But considering that two hundred years’ worth of my family have lived in this house since then, I rather think ‘Bad Billy’ Fitzwalter won.”

  “The papers of Octavius Belcher, Esquire, seem to disagree.” Ed folded his arms, all the time holding Henry’s gaze. “It seems that, once our two cricketing ancestors sobered up, Octavius thought he’d won by one run, but your man thought the victory was his. Standish couldn’t remember where he’d put the score sheet in his drunken haze, so they took his word for it that the victory was Fitzwalter’s.”

  Ed raised his eyebrows, as though that was an earth-shattering revelation. “Now, interesting thing is that Standish and Fitzwalter were thick as thieves as the years went by, close as brothers once they were widowed. Belcher’s diary reckons that this friendship calls the result into question. He and I think that he won that cricket match, and Fitzwalter’s best pal, Standish, cheated him out of his prize. That would make your house mine.”

  Henry tipped his head to one side, considering.

  I really should’ve found a property lawyer.

  “I know you’ve long had your eye on my house. Even trying to copy it in red brick.” Like a simpleton. “Perhaps you’ll show me this diary, then?”

  “Happy to, Henry. It’s with my lawyer, I’ll have him send you a copy across.”

  “Good. I’ll get my lawyer to look it over and write your lawyer a letter telling you to sod off.”

  Was a smidgen of the spirit of William Fitzwalter yet alive in Henry’s veins? Henry clamped his mouth shut. Telling Ed to sod off was possibly not a good idea. And neither was it a good idea to claim that he had a lawyer when he didn’t. Because now he would have to find one—fast.

  “Funny, isn’t it? The Standish-Brookes and the Fitzwalters in each other’s pockets all those years and what was it you fell out over? The
dishonesty of good old George, thieving your cricket cup.” Ed smirked, sucking in his cheeks. “So what if Standish was just as shifty as his great, great, God-knows-how-many more great grandson is?”

  “One would hope there’s some difference between a man of the cloth and a bloody television celebrity.” Henry bristled. “You have delighted us long enough, Ed Belcher. It’s time for you to leave.”

  “Let’s do this as friends.” Ed smiled. “I’ll pay you market value minus ten percent, how’s that? Come on, better than having me drag you into court!”

  “You—you want to buy this house? Good luck with that, because it’s not for sale!” Was it there again, just a touch of William Fitzwalter’s fire? Which, Henry reminded himself, had got him into this pickle to start with. “Get off my land.”

  “The offer’s on the table. I’ll knock five percent off for each week that passes. Trust me, it’s still cheaper than a lawyer.”

  “I won’t be bullied by you, Ed. Do you realize that?” Henry prodded his finger against Ed’s chest, emphasizing each word. “I. Will. Not!”

  “I blacked your eyes and bruised your balls in school, Henrietta, and I’ll do it again in court.” Ed pushed his face very close to Henry’s. “Tell your pal to make a telly series about that.”

  “You were very fond of grabbing other boys’ testicles at school, weren’t you, Edwina.”

  “And I’ve squeezed enough to make myself a millionaire.” Ed’s hand shot out, closing around Henry’s balls as though to demonstrate. “I’ll squeeze a whole fucking house out of yours.”

  Henry stifled his surprised gasp and clenched his jaw. Ed’s grip tightened and slowly twisted. Henry glared at his tormentor even while every pain receptor in his groin leaped and twanged. He grabbed Ed’s wrist, trying to disengage his grip, but Ed only clamped on harder.

  “Time to leave, Belcher! Now-owww, shit!”

  Perhaps, Henry realized, he was losing consciousness, because he had to be hallucinating. In his fevered, gonad-squeezing-induced world of pain, George Standish-Brookes was strolling across the lawn from the direction of the lake, dressed once again in only those bloody swimming shorts that sat just so on his hips—