The Magic Cottage

OGBORN

WE MADE AN early start for Bunbury the following day.

Midge's reaction had surprised me when she'd returned from the agency and I told her of the two phone calls; surprised me because she'd only smiled as though the turn of events had not been altogether unexpected. She'd put her arms around my neck, kissed my nose, and said enigmatically: "It was meant to be."

Working from the art director's rough scamps (the client was an up-market chain of children's fashion stores, catering for tots and teens and everything that went on in between), she'd sketched out all three of her poster illustrations by late that night; I'd phoned the solicitor, Ogborn, earlier on in the afternoon, and arranged to be in his office by 10:30 the following morning. He said he looked forward to meeting us both.

The journey meant that most of the day would be lost as far as Midge's project was concerned, but she was quite prepared to work night and day for the rest of the week and weekend to have the illustrations ready for the following Monday. The agency needed them by that time so that they could be copied photographically, with copy lines added, for presentation to their client later on in the week. Like a lot of artistic things, the pictures could either go beautifully right first off, or disastrously wrong: for Midge's sake, I prayed this time it would be the former.

Bunbury turned out to be one of those thriving market towns, with a lot more charm than the village of Cantrip: narrow streets, timbered houses and inns, overhanging gables and bow-windowed shops; just off the busy market square was a modern shopping mall, but even this managed to blend unobtrusively with the older buildings around it. There was a healthy bustle to the place that revived us after our early-morning rise and long journey. We found the offices of Ogborn, Puckridge and Quenby situated in a secluded, cobble-stoned cul-de-sac, the terraced buildings of ageing red brick with shoulder-height railings guarding the basement areas and a flight of steps leading up to each front door. The interior of O, P and Q was somewhat austere in comparison; functional without frills, dignified yet characterless. There were not many frills about Mr. Ogborn either, although he certainly had olde-worlde dignity and a character that was not so far removed from Dickens. Putting an age on him wasn't easy, but anywhere between sixty and eighty would have been close.

He was quiet-mannered, yet crisp, his back a little crooked, his frame thin. Gold-rimmed spectacles rested on an unashamedly prominent nose, and his eyes, with their long, almost hooded lids, were of the palest gray I'd ever seen. But they were not unkind eyes.

He offered me a long, bony hand and when I shook it I was surprised by the firmness of its grip. He held Midge's a shade longer than necessary, I thought, and scrutinized her with an interest he hadn't shown me. Maybe you're never too old. We had been shown into his office by a secretary whose age could not have been too far off his own, and who treated him with a quiet reverence that might be due to a cardinal or television newscaster. As she left, softly closing the door behind her, Ogborn offered two chairs opposite his leathertopped desk. Midge and I sat.

"It was extremely good of you both to come all this way," he began in a voice that was as dry and brittle as were probably his old bones. "Mr. Bickleshift informed me of your interest in Gramarye and I thought it might be appropriate for us to meet. I take it you are genuinely interested in the property?"

Midge's response was very swift. "We'd love to buy the cottage."

I shifted in my seat and nodded when the solicitor eyed me.

"But the financial requirements appear to be some problem to you."

This time I was swifter than Midge. "The place is going to need quite a bit of renovation. There's a great, gaping crack—"

"Yes, I understand that the cottage has deteriorated considerably over recent months," he interrupted. "As executor of Flora Chaldean's estate I have the authority to consider any reasonable bid, and it's my opinion that the sooner Gramarye is occupied, the better for its general condition."

"Well, it'll take a tidy sum to prevent further deterioration, Mr Ogborn," I pointed out to him.

"Quite so. Money and goodwill."

Goodwill?

He smiled at my mute surprise. "It's my belief that homes live and breathe through the people who reside in them, Mr. Stringer."

I wasn't going to argue the point, not when negotiations were still at a "delicate" stage. Midge, however, appeared eager to agree.

"That's what Gramarye needs so much right now, Mr. Ogborn—life inside its walls."

I didn't detect any embarrassment whatsoever in the solicitor's steady gaze, but I quickly added, "All unoccupied houses become like mausoleums eventually, don't they? Stale and decrepit. Just a good airing does them a lot of good. Y'know, sometimes—"

"May I ask you a personal question, Miss Gudgeon?" Ogborn said.

"Please do," Midge replied.

"I wondered if you had a career, a profession of some kind."

"I'm an illustrator."

"Ah." That appeared to please him.

"I illustrate children's books mostly."

"I see." He studied her for several seconds and I began to get a little vexed at his attention.

"I'm a musician," I told him.

"I see." His smile seemed thinner somehow.

"Could you tell us something about Flora Chaldean?" Midge asked. "She must have lived at Gramarye for a good many years."

"Indeed she did," replied Ogborn, straightening in his chair as much as the curvature in his spine would allow. "I understand she was an orphan taken in by the owners of the cottage, who were childless themselves, some time before the First World War, and raised as their own daughter. There was no official record of adoption, and nobody appears to have known her exact age when she died. I don't believe that years had very much significance to Flora herself."

"Was she ever married?" inquired Midge.

"For a short time only. Her husband was killed in the last war after, I think, barely two or three years of marriage. The niece who inherited the estate was his, you see, and proved the devil of a job to trace, I might add. She herself is in her sixties, and has no interest in Gramarye whatsoever, and hardly any in her late aunt-in-law. Quite understandable under the circumstances."

"How did Mrs. Chaldean manage to support herself?"

If Ogborn found Midge's question impertinent, he didn't show it. "Oh, her adoptive parents left her a small inheritance and I believe she also collected the usual meager war widow's pension. Generally, I'm led to believe she used the barter system with locals, which is much favored in the more remote parts of the country."

"The barter system?" I didn't know what all this had to do with buying a house, but I was willing to play along.

"Flora Chaldean had the reputation hereabouts of being something of a healer. Nothing spectacular, you understand, but she made up medicinal potions for ailing locals, those with heavy colds, sore throats, that sort of thing, and in exchange they supplied her with the odd chicken or rabbit or vegetables or whatever. Small things, nothing grand, nothing for the Inland Revenue to be concerned about. She concocted her potions from old, perhaps ancient, remedies, the kind passed down the years through word of mouth. It seems she also had a wonderful way with sick or injured animals." Ogborn looked down at his hands folded on the desk and added, as if to himself, "Quite remarkable."

I almost smiled, thinking of witches' brews and spells, and boiling babies' legs. If I could have without being noticed, I'd have nudged Midge. Instead I stole a quick glance at her and found she was still absorbed in what Ogborn had been saying.

Clearing my throat, I said to the solicitor, "About the price . . . ?"

His manner instantly became more crisp. "Yes, of course. I know you're rather concerned over the cost. I'm prepared to accept that conditions in the property have become far worse during the winter months since the previous owner's demise, so perhaps the original valuation was too high, although I'm bound to say that house prices these days do not generally devalue."

"Mr. Ogborn, the price isn't—" Midge began to say, before I cut in.

"I thought maybe we could meet halfway."

"You mentioned a reduction of three thousand to Mr. Bickleshift____"

"Uh, four thousand, actually." I ignored the sharp glance from Midge. Ogborn consulted a note pad on the desk.

"Oh, I see. I understood the figure to be three," he said.

"Well, yes, it was mentioned, but the more we can save on the price, the more we can spend on the cottage's renovation."

"Another couple came to see me yesterday, and they, too, were very interested . . ."

"But I guess we could scrape up that extra thousand from somewhere."

"I do have an obligation to my late client's surviving relative to obtain the best price possible. However, I also have an obligation toward the wishes expressed by Flora Chaldean in her Will. That is, to find a suitable person, or persons, to continue the occupation of Gramarye."

I didn't quite like the sound of that, and liked even less the feeling that I was not necessarily included in that particular grouping. Again he was looking directly at Midge.

"What would you say," Ogborn went on, "if I allowed you a £1500 reduction?"

"We'd say yes, Mr. Ogborn," Midge said promptly.

"We'd say yes," I agreed more slowly.

"Then your offer is accepted," Ogborn said.

I breathed out a secret sigh and Midge, less introvertly, bounced in her seat. "That's wonderful!" she enthused and, unabashed, leaned over and kissed my cheek.

"A deposit will be required, naturally," Ogborn told us, "and perhaps your own solicitor could contact me as soon as possible. I trust you are purchasing in your joint names?"

We nodded jointly at his raised eyebrows. I had a silly grin on my face and it was because of Midge's exuberance. Not only that: I also felt good about the deal myself. Suddenly I was a man with conviction. Yes, I was going to enjoy living in the country. Nobody said it had to be completely back-to-nature. And Gramarye was going to be our first proper home together.

But still that niggly tormentor enjoyed itself at the back of my mind.

"Um, I'm just a bit puzzled," I said to Ogborn. "Mr. Bickleshift implied that a number of people were interested in the cottage."

"There have been six positive inquiries since the advertisement was placed and, as I've already informed you, I, myself, met with another young couple only yesterday."

I felt awkward, but I couldn't let it go. "So why us? Don't get me wrong—we want to buy, the deal is as good as sealed so far as we're concerned—but I can't help wondering if the other offers were lower than ours."

He seemed genuinely amused. "On the contrary, Mr. Stringer. Those who were interested were willing to pay the full price."

Curiouser and curiouser.

He went on: "But as I've already explained, Flora Chaldean was insistent that Gramarye be passed on to someone suitable. Several of those other prospective buyers were merely property speculators, the kind who would renovate and modernize, to sell again immediately at some exorbitant price, while others would only use the cottage as a weekend retreat. That was far from what my late client had in mind for Gramarye." He paused. "And then there were those who had altogether different purposes for the place."

The last sentence had been said very quietly, almost to himself.

"Sorry?" I said.

He rested back in his chair. "Not important, Mr. Stringer, not important. Now, I know you have a long journey ahead of you, so I shan't detain you any further. I'll make Bickleshift aware of our agreement and perhaps you could let me have that deposit within the next day or two—naturally my own offices will handle the conveyancing of the property."

"Mike . . ." prompted Midge.

"I can let you have a check right away." I was already reaching into my inside pocket.

"Splendid. I'll make out a receipt for you and then the matter will be safely in hand. The agent tells me you haven't the problem of selling a house yourself, so that's a complication out of the way."

"That's right, we're renting at the moment. How did Bickleshift know that?"

"I told him when I rang on Monday," came the answer from Midge. "I thought having no chain of contracts would be in our favor."

She really had been so sure of the place.

We concluded our business with the solicitor, shook hands with him and left. Midge was surprisingly subdued once we were outside, although I could tell she was deliriously happy, and I guessed it was due to the tension of the past couple of days draining from her. That being so, we still wanted to celebrate right there and then, but unfortunately her work commitment wouldn't allow: she had to get back and start on those illustrations. Also, I had to get together with Albert Lee and work on arrangements for next week's lightning tour. It was going to be a heavy schedule, and I looked forward to it; long time since I'd been on the road, and I'd already half forgotten the hardships involved.

We drove from Bunbury and jabbered all the way to the city, amazed at our good fortune and busily making plans. Midge and I had a lot of sweat ahead of us, but we knew it was going to be worth it. Oh yeah, we knew.