The Rectory Read online

  The Rectory

  Ivan B

  Published: 2010

  Tag(s): "Novel" "Rectory" "Comic" "Romance"

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  Published by barlebooks.net©2010

  Chapter 1

  Dawning of a New Day

  The rectory sat in the moonlight brooding behind the gaunt trees which had been mere saplings when it’s foundations were first laid. Over the years it had seen owners come and go, some had been transitory, some more enduring, but today there was going to be a new owner. The moon hid it’s face behind a cloud and the rectory became a place of darkness and gloom as it waited for the dawn of a new era.

  I guess it all started when I received a letter from Bladdel and Knutt, solicitors to the gentry of Oxfordshire. Until then I had been living out my meagre existence as an underachieving bank clerk. Underachieving primarily because my heart was not in the job; it was a means of earning a living, no more and no less. I found no joy in handling other people’s money when my own was so paltry. In fact I was just beginning to detest my job with a new loathing when the letter arrived unheralded on my doormat. This letter, this life changing letter, was contained in such an inauspicious envelope that it almost got swept up with the junk mail and placed directly in the waste bin, only avoiding this fate because I noticed at the last moment that it had a real first-class stamp and not an anonymous bulk mail frank. But back to the letter and its contents. The letter was terse to the point of abruptness, a mere one line long if you forget all the polite appendages that adorn real letters such as addresses and diplomacy. The one line was enough however to raise temptation within me with its blunt message of ‘Please would you contact us at your earliest convenience, this may be to your advantage.’ Before yielding, however, I inspected the letter more thoroughly to realise that it had been composed on embossed paper with a unique watermark using a real typewriter. The resulting phone call was both swift and short; I was to meet them on Monday of the following week.

  The day dawned dismal and dank as do most days in late January; it was cold, but not cold enough to freeze, and wet, but not wet enough to warrant an umbrella. The allotted meeting place was the Garnhame Hotel in Ipswich, a sort of plastic tower with plastic fitting and, should you be unfortunate enough to eat there, plastic food. I arrived fifteen minutes early, not that I was eager you understand, but it is not everyday that you might learn something ‘to your advantage.’ After surveying the lounge I settled down into a corner armchair and watched the door. At five minutes to the allotted time an odd couple walked in; he with a crisp pin-stripe suit and she with a black dress so perfect in its manufacture it appeared to have been sprayed on her lithe nubile body. However, it was not the clothes that made them odd, it was their demeanour; he with a face like a bulldog that had eaten lemons all it’s life and her with an expression like an angel on ecstasy. The receptionist pointed to me and there was no doubting their dissimilarity as they approached. He walked like a war-weary veteran, indeed he looked old enough to be a war-weary veteran. She walked with a sweeping flow as if she was in the middle of a ballet lesson, but as she looked around thirty I guessed that she’d left ballet lessons behind a long time ago. Up close he had the complexion of an oak tree, she the complexion of a smooth skinned peach. I stood up as they approached and he held out his hand.

  “Stephen Holmes I presume?”

  I smiled and shook his hand, it was like grasping a limp lettuce covered in snail slime. He spoke again with the same Oxford English voice.

  “Let me introduce us; I’m Harold Bladdel and this is my associate Miss Bryony Carrington-Greeves.”

  I shook her hand; the experience was akin to being lovingly caressed by a Black Mamba. We sat down and Harold balanced a battered leather clip-board on his knees. There was no friendly preamble and no passing of pleasantries, he got straight down to business fixing me with his hang-dog brown eyes as if I was personally responsible for the woes of the world. But I must admit he was polite;

  “May I ask if you brought the documents we requested?”

  I passed him over my birth certificate, my passport, copies of my mother’s death and wedding certificates, my mother’s birth certificate, my National Insurance Card (non-photographic version) and my driving licence (photographic version). He quickly leafed through the small pile of documents and fixed me once again with his hang-dog gaze.

  “Grandparents?”

  I fished into my inside pocket, and passed over two baptism certificates, one for my mother and one for her father. I asked him to be careful with the latter, it was old and precious to me and the only link I had with my grandparents; he didn’t respond. Bryony Carrington-Greeves smoothly took over their operation and I became conscious that they knew their business. She gave me a smile that would have charmed the leaves from the trees and caused men to willingly go to war.

  “Thank you for coming Mr Holmes,” she purred, “But before we can go any further we just have to be sure that you are the person we are looking for, so could you please tell me about yourself.”

  Telling anyone about myself is rather like trying to describe white particles on a white background under a white light.

  “What’s there to say? Born Stephen Holmes, sired by Roger Holmes out of Hannah Holmes née Evans.”

  She gave a tolerant smile.

  “I mean tell me about yourself as in give me a precise verbal history.”

  I felt like responding that I had been born at a very early age, but decided that there was no profit to be made from sarcasm.

  “I’m told that I was born in Felburgh Cottage Hospital and that I weighed in at around six pounds. Went to St Cedd’s Primary school and then Eastburgh Comprehensive. Fairly undistinguished academic record coming out with eight GCSEs. After that I studied at Suffolk College obtaining two ‘A’ levels - Drama and Mathematics. Joined the bank when I was twenty-three after spending a four years in a flea bitten touring company trying to take Macbeth to the masses. Been at the bank ever since and have risen from Trainee Counter Clerk to Counter Clerk Grade 1, that means that I’m allowed in the safe by myself, but little else.”

  Her luxurious pale blue iridescent eyes flicked down to her notepad and up again;

  “What do you know of your Mother?”

  “Born in deepest Wales just after the Korean war and we never really met seeing as she died during childbirth and I was the child in question.”

  She nodded to herself and her silken russet coloured hair waved gently as if in a domesticated breeze.

  “Did you ever meet your grandfather?”

  “Frequently, I spent many happy summer holidays with him and grandma on their farm in North Wales. He died when I was nineteen, she died a couple of years ago, physically that is, mentally she’d left us many years ago.”

  “What hospital did your grandfather die in?” This as a swift and decisive question with full on eye contact.

  “Conway.”

  She nodded to herself again and her hair rippled into stillness. “One final question; did you ever meet your Great-Aunt Gwyneth?”

  Somehow I knew that this was the crunch question and all the others had been mere cannon fodder.

  “Of course, she died a year after my grandma and she took grandma’s funeral. When I was young she also lived on grandpa’s farm. I believe that she joined a
convent – Church or Wales of course – but dropped out before she took her final vows. After that she became a deaconess in the Church of England and in the mid 1990s was ordained priest at Bury Cathedral – I was there as she’s also my Godmother.”

  Bryony smiled at me and I could almost hear birds start to sing. “Can you remember any distinguishing features she might have had?”

  I’d been wrong, this was the crunch question.

  “She had no little finger on her left hand, said she lost it to a bacon slicer in the convent. She also never wore short sleeves as she had a fearsome burn scar on her left arm from falling into a bonfire.”

  She nodded to herself;

  “Please excuse us for a moment as we confer.”

  She rattled off a phrase in Latin to old sourpuss and he replied in the same language. Had it been Welsh I might have had a half-chance of understanding their conversation, but Latin was out of my league as doubtless was Miss Bryony Carrington-Greeves. Eventually, after a full two minutes of discussion in Latin, Harold took up the baton again. He cleared his throat like a bulldog about to address a juicy bony.

  “I think there is no doubt who you are Mr Holmes, to be honest I was fairly sure when we first met, as you have the characteristic Evan’s ears.”

  By that he meant that they stuck out like table-tennis bats. He cleared his throat again;

  “I am pleased to tell you that you have inherited a small legacy from one of our clients, a Mr John Grant.”

  He consulted his notes, but I had a feeling that he didn’t need to. “The legacy comprises of the residue of his estate and his final residence, but,” he fixed me with a stare that would have frozen the dead, “But there is one small caveat; he insists that you can only have the legacy if you are willing to renovate the house.”

  Curiosity rose within me.

  “And if I’m not?”

  “The legacy will pass to the next person in the will; he was quite explicit, there are no half measures.”

  I needed more information.

  “Would you mind giving me a few more details?”

  He smiled: that is his cheeks rose slightly, the eyes stayed in their deadpan gaze.

  “The house is known as The Rectory, I believe it used to be the Rectory for St James, the residue of the estate is not yet settled, but it will certainly be in excess of three-quarters of a million pounds and will probably be nearer one and a quarter million once we get a full valuation of his assets.”

  I was dumbfounded, they had said it would be to my advantage, but a house and around a million pounds? I took a moment to let my heartbeat recover.

  “Is that three-quarters of a million in cash?”

  Bryony smirked at my naïvety.

  “Not quite Mr Holmes, that figure includes the grounds surrounding The Rectory, a couple of paintings, a car and a portfolio of shares. I believe the cash content – that is the sum in his bank - is only around £10,000.”

  Only £10,000! If she only knew the state of my finances it would not be an ‘only.’ I sat for a moment trying to fully comprehend my situation.

  “Why me, I’ve never heard of John Grant?”

  Bryony glanced at her watch and hoped that I wouldn’t notice; fat chance I was watching her every move after all it’s not every day a peasant gets to sit next to a goddess.

  “Have you heard of Grant Radios?” She purred.

  “You mean the little transistor radios we all had as children?”

  “Exactly. Mr Grant owned the company until he sold it in the mid eighties. I won’t go into details, but he had a rather tragic life as far as his family were concerned. He lost his wife and six children in a plane crash and the rest of his family rather ostracised him. Your great-aunt was apparently the only person he would talk to towards the end of his life and his will stipulates that his legacy should go to your aunt’s nearest next of kin who is under 35 – that is you.”

  I did a quick calculation, my older brother was 37.

  “Seems rather unusual.”

  She gave a supercilious smile,

  “He was a little eccentric and a bit of a recluse.; his will states that he doesn’t want the legacy to go to any old fogies or any of his family members as they never visited him.”

  I took some time out to think and found my grandpa’s words ringing in my brain – ‘behind every gift is a motive waiting to happen.’ He could be a cynical old man my grandpa.

  “What’s the catch?”

  Bryony re-crossed her elegant legs and old sourpuss shuffled his immaculately clad feet. Eventually he said dryly;

  “The Rectory is a little run down.”

  Warning bells began to ring.

  “How run down?”

  He looked to Bryony for help, she stood up;

  “Well we’d better go and see.”

  I followed her like a lamb to the slaughter.

  Chapter 2

  First Sight

  I remember my first journey to The Rectory as if it was yesterday. Sourpuss and Bryony led the way in their snow white Lexus limousine; they weren’t difficult to follow, I don’t believe he went any faster than 40mph for the whole 20 mile trip. The Rectory turned out to be on the outskirts of Eastburgh, a small Suffolk coastal town that got left behind in a time warp somewhere before the swinging sixties. As I followed their car in my battered mini I wondered if they’d investigated my bank accounts – I had no doubt that they could have if they wanted to. If they had then they knew that I was up to my armpits in debt courtesy of leaving the car keys in my smart Golf Gti while I went to pay for petrol, and mutually unsympathetic insurance and loan companies. So the £10,000 in cash Bryony had so casually referred to would take the edge off of my debts and allow me to have a decent holiday. As I waggled the mini’s gear-stick, which was more akin to stirring sago pudding with a straw that actually changing gear smoothly, I also remembered that Bryony said there was a car, what sort of car I wondered? If he was a millionaire it could be anything. So as I drove through the wet Suffolk countryside I failed to form any decent or probing questions in my mind, instead I mused on where to have a holiday and what sort of car a millionaire would drive. I’m sad to say that never once on that drive did I think about the rectory, the recluse that had bequeathed it to me or that I could just walk away and leave it all to someone else.

  Eventually we pulled up in a sort of country lane. A sort of lane in that it had houses down one side and open fields on the other. It was also a sort of lane in that it didn’t go anywhere. It ended at a dead end by tangle of overgrown trees and protruding bushes. Sourpuss stayed in the car and Bryony climbed out. I walked up to her and glanced into the car, Sourpuss had already started copying my documents with the aid of a laptop and portable scanner. My angel in black pointed to a small wooden gate sandwiched between rotting vegetation, clearly I was expected to open it. The front garden, that is if you could call it a garden, was all grass and gravel as the driveway from the two wooden gates at the extreme end of the lane curved past the front of the house. I noted that the grass was perfectly edged and full of little circular flower-beds set at evenly spaced intervals. I stopped and took my first look at the rectory and it looked suitably huge. Obviously Victorian or just Post-Victorian, it was double fronted with the entrance door in the middle and huge sash windows to the left and right in perfect symmetry. The only difference on the first floor’s was that in the centre it had a window not a door. Even with a cursory glance I could see that the wooden window frames were in need of a great deal of tender loving care and that parts of the guttering were in desperate need of any sort of care. Bryony jingled some keys, “We’ll have to walk round the back as the front door is bolted.”

  “Which way?”

  “Follow the drive to the East of the house.”

  Did I carry a compass in my top pocket?

  “Which ways East?”

  “To the left.”

  I walked along the gravel driveway to find it continued down the side o
f the house and disappeared round the back. To the left side of the driveway there was another lawn and another set of evenly spaced circular flower-beds, I was beginning to hate those flower-beds. I counted my paces down the side of the house; it worked out at 24 paces, that translated to around 20 yards. I remember thinking ‘good grief this place is really huge’ as I rounded the back of the house. Behind the house there was an expanse of garden rolling down a gentle slope, needless to say it was composed of a perfectly flat lawn and two arcs of correctly spaced small circular flower beds. The driveway turned away from the house opposite the back-door and split the garden in two. At the bottom of the long garden the extended drive passed a white double sized garage with a pitched tiled roof. Bryony broke into my thoughts.

  “The garage has a small studio flat over it, it’s a bit poky but livable; used to be the residence for his gardener, he left three months before the old man died but I suspect he’s been back.”

  I raised my eyes beyond the garage, Bryony must have been watching, or reading my thoughts.

  “The paddock beyond and the dilapidated stable block are also part of the estate.”

  I surveyed the paddock, the grass was short and the gate shut, “Who’s using it?”

  “Local riding school – they have permission – they’ve been using it for years.”

  “Do they pay rent?”

  “No.”

  I mentally put that item at the top of my ‘to do’ list. Bryony paused at the back door and I passed her to walk down the driveway a little and look back. The back of the house was a mess, I mean architecturally a mess. The first floor showed the same even symmetry of the front, but the ground floor was different. There was obviously an extension to the back of what I assumed to be the kitchen and besides this, running across the back of the house and finishing in a small rotunda round the corner of the house was a conservatory. Not one of your cheap glass and metal conservatories, but a brick and glass conservatory of some distinction; trouble was the glass panes were whitened out so I couldn’t see through them. Bryony watched me.