The following evening, after an exhausting day at work, Ashleigh came home to find Peter had not only prepared dinner, but laid the table for two, complete with a white cloth, lighted candles and floral decorations.
"Another attempt to express gratitude," he grinned. "Hope you like what's coming. I didn't know what time you'd arrive, so I opted for a dish that can simmer till needed. Sit down and wait to be served."
Deciding the occasion warranted a change of clothing, Ashleigh disappeared for five minutes, returning in a crisp blue dress that met with Peter's full approval. He held her chair back as she sat down, then produced two home-made prawn cocktails.
"Hope this is okay?" he asked apprehensively.
Ashleigh leaned across and touched his arm. "Perfect! This is fun. Just like having a surprise birthday party."
Peter smiled. "Actually, that's precisely what it is. I didn't like to tell you in case you thought I was fishing for a present, but today I officially reached the age of thirty-five. Do I look it?"
"Not by candle-light. Many happy returns. Are you planning to serve wine?"
"Since alcohol's been a touchy subject lately," he said, "I decided to wait and see if you suggested it first. Red or white? The white's in the fridge, so it should be suitably cool."
"White it is then," she decided.
"Oh, and there's also champagne," he added. "A bottle given to me by a customer many weeks ago which I've been keeping for a suitable occasion."
"Champagne it is then! All restrictions lifted for one night."
After the hors-d'oeuvre, Peter brought in a shepherd's pie topped with grilled cheese, which he served with broad beans and a smooth brown gravy. This was followed by a chocolate cheesecake which he openly admitted came from a shop, claiming it was the only way to ensure everything was perfect.
When Ashleigh's glass was empty, he refilled it with champagne, and she responded with a toast.
"Here's to you, Peter, and a happier year than the one you've just had." Their glasses rang together, and in the candlelight Ashleigh thought she detected an extra gleam to Peter's eye.
"I collected the champagne today from Shipley Green," he said. "I drove over this morning and picked up various extras, including my small television which is now in your spare room."
"You certainly enjoy your little luxuries," she commented.
"Well, the set in your front room doesn't seem too healthy, and I like to see a friendly face when I'm decorating. The same when dining by candlelight."
It may have been the combined effects of wine and her excessive tiredness, but Ashleigh found herself upstairs an hour later, relaxing beside Peter on top of his quilt while they lay and watched the main ten o'clock news. This was followed at ten-thirty by the local news from Meridian.
"And finally comes a report from Shipley Green, where firemen were called this afternoon to a blazing oast-house. Currently used as a private dwelling, the building suffered only minor damage and the fire was quickly brought under control. It's reported that a water-bed containing many gallons of water helped to reduce the spread of flames before crews arrived in this remote part of Kent. The house was found to be unoccupied at the time, and the cause of the fire is still unknown."
Peter and Ashleigh stared at one another in horror, their mouths gaping before they simultaneously exclaimed shocked reaction.
"Electrical fault, I bet," said Ashleigh. "Could it be the time-switches?"
"I'm quite sure I left nothing else switched on," Peter assured her. "You don't suppose it was arson?"
"You think Sheila's getting vindictive?"
"Whatever it was," he sighed, "thanks to the miracle of television, everyone now knows my house is unattended. Scores of vandals may be heading for the place right now, so we'd better move fast."
He sat up, but Ashleigh thrust out a restraining arm. "Peter, we can't. We're both pickled. And apart from the dangers of driving while drunk, if I end up losing my licence, I'm sunk. Hey," she giggled dreamily, "that rhymes."
Peter nodded kindly. "So it does. We'd better go first thing in the morning and assess the damage. Didn't I say this was the worst year of my r life? Boy, it certainly ended with a bang. What else is likely to go wrong, I wonder? Don't answer that, because I don't want to know."
He lay back and stared at the ceiling.
"Things could be worse," said Ashleigh. "You could have ended up being married to me."
"Are you serious?"
"Not very. Just being a bit spontaneous - must be the champagne. But I was thinking - wines need to mature before they fully affect our senses. I guess maybe friendships work the same way. Who knows what the fates hold?"
"I'm trying to imagine our ill-fated oasthouse! I wonder how badly it's damaged? It's like it was destined never to belong to either of us. Yet it did bring us together. You don't regret that, I hope?"
"Why should I regret making new friends? Meeting you - and Julie."
"Ah yes," he sighed. "Good old Julie! Do you realise, every time you mention that child's name, your eyes go all soft and dreamy?" Peter turned to study Ashleigh's face in close-up. "I do wish I could give you whatever it is you really want, my love - but I'm not sure you even know what that is."
"Oh, I do," she said. "I simply want to feel loved and secure."
"Then let's make that one of my priorities as I enter middle-age. But is there any hope for me, do you think?"
"Hope in what way? Getting a job? Finding your feet? Sorting out what's to be done about you-know-who and you-know-who's mother? Or do I mean you-know-who's daughter?"
"Depends on you knowing who the first you-know-who was," he replied.
This was enough to send Ashleigh into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.
"Oh, my lord," she sighed at last, "I haven't felt this happy for yonks. Sorry, Else, old girl, if you're listening - but it's all your damned fault."
"I wonder if Elsie started that fire with her pitch-fork," Peter suggested. "Can't you just see her, running around down there in red tights and a forked tail, making everyone's life sheer hell? Poor Elsie!"
"Yes," echoed Ashleigh. "And the poor old devil!"
They looked at each other and both exploded into giggles which came to an end only when Peter rolled onto the floor. Ashleigh leaned over the edge of the bed and gazed down at him anxiously.
"Are you okay?"
"Must you keep doing that?" he cried. "Presenting me with that same tantalising view again - this is where I came in. You're a very tantalising girl, you know. Blue suits you."
"It also matches my car."
"Which one?"
"The mini, of course." Then she yawned. "Happy birthday, Peter. Sorry about the oast-house. Still, at least we know our priorities for the morning, so we'd better get some sleep." Ashleigh got up and stumbled wearily towards the doorway. "You'd better make sure I wear this dress again tomorrow, so I can make it all black and filthy. You can wear your creosoted suit too. Must look your best for when Sheila shows up."
"You think that's likely?"
"If she's seen tonight's news she'll know exactly where to find one of us tomorrow morning." Ashleigh blew him a kiss. "Goodnight, Mr. Daddy!"
"Night-night, little girl! Sleep well."
The following morning they woke early, dressed themselves in old jeans and sweatshirts, and took the mini over to Shipley Green. They arrived well before eight to find several sightseers already gathered in the forecourt, shaking their heads and exchanging views as to possible causes.
"Can't go in," a man cautioned them as they approached. "It's private."
"That's all right," Ashleigh replied, "we're professional burglars. Always carry a good set of skeleton keys."
Peter unlocked the front door and they stepped warily inside. The damage wasn't half as bad as they'd feared. The far end of the living-room was blackened with soot and some of the timbers were slightly charred. Peter went carefully up the stairs and stood in the doorway of his bedroom. The air was filled with the acrid stench of burnt rubber. What had once been a water-bed was now a congealed black mass, stuck to the floor like a huge mound of treacle toffee.
He advanced stealthily into the room and peered into the recess where the television had stood. The power socket at the back had apparently melted, and rivulets of hardened plastic ran down the wall and into the floor.
"Definitely looks like an electrical fault," he sighed, returning to Ashleigh in the kitchen. "And I can't say you didn't warn me."
"Luckily everything seems fine here," she said. "Oh Peter, what a mess!" She flung her arms tightly around him. "I've seen fires on television, but never in a house I knew."
"Actually, the damage isn't that bad," he said encouragingly. "The power's been turned off, I suppose?"
He reached for a switch.
"Peter, please!" she cautioned him. "Please, just don't touch anything, okay? Leave everything as it is until they've established precisely what went wrong. You did put the correct fuse-wire back in the box after your meddlings with the fridge?"
Peter's face told her he hadn't. "But it seems a power point caused it," he said, "not the lighting circuit. I don't know. This whole electrical business is beyond me."
"Yet you understand cars?"
"Ashleigh, I sell cars, I don't build or repair them. A salesman's job is to SOUND as if he knows what he's talking about, that's all."
"Well, there's not a lot we can do here," she said, "except rescue anything you don't want stolen. Are there any items of special value in this house?"
"Only one," he said, "and she's right here in my kitchen."
"Then I suggest you take her outside and put her somewhere safe. I think we've seen all there is to see here."
They emerged through the front door to find themselves facing a Volvo and a supremely triumphant woman with auburn hair.
"Oh, yes," Sheila greeted them with a mocking smile. "I was sure I'd find you both here. Well? Are you pleased with your little love-nest?"
"It's charming," said Ashleigh. "Just what we've always dreamed of. Sorry we can't offer you coffee or a cup of char, but the milk's boiled dry."
Sheila chose to ignore her. "And what have you to say for yourself?" she gloated, staring at Peter with open scorn. "Satisfied with all your tomfoolery, trying to hide from the law like a cornered rat?"
Peter smiled benignly. "Fine thanks. How's Julie?"
"Julietta is in school where she belongs - no thanks to you. Have you got that money yet? Nine thousand pounds this man owes me - though I don't suppose that comes as news to you, Ashleigh Ferguson."
"No," she said, "but we'll raise it somehow between us. Your idea of a trust-fund makes all the difference. Of course, when I lend Peter the money, I'll insist he hands it over to Julie in person."
The woman snorted like a rhinoceros. "I'm not letting him anywhere near my daughter. I was a fool to let him get involved in the first place. When I think of all the men I could have had, yet I had to pick him - what a pathetic specimen! Don't you find him pathetic?"
"You mean sympathetic, surely? Because I find his warm, caring nature one his most endearing features."
"Not caring enough to pay my daughter what she's owed."
"Ah, but consider what he provides in other ways, Sheila. Essential commodities which are in short supply elsewhere. Kindness, love, attention - all the qualities of a normal, caring father!"
"Him? Don't make me laugh. What does he know about being a father?"
"Surely no less than you know about being the mother. I never had a real father - but I'd say Julie's been exceptionally lucky with hers."
"She'd be a damned sight luckier if she had a father who's prepared to fulfil his obligations."
"I'm sure Peter will continue to do his best, Mrs. Bushnall, despite what are clearly very trying circumstances. But a father's real worth isn't measured by the amounts of money he hands over. Real fathering is based on love."
"Oho, yes," she mocked, looking down at Peter's feet. "I've witnessed his kind of love, the ham-fisted old mauler."
"Old? He can't be a day over thirty-five, surely. If you consider that old, Mrs. Bushnall, then you must have been no more than Julie's age when you first fell for Peter's charms."
"Listen, you. I didn't fall for his charms, no way. I had plenty of other men swarming all over me - real men, not pathetic wimps who can't be bothered to support their own child."
"Nevertheless, Julie's as much Peter's child as yours, so she has a right to see him whenever she pleases."
"Really? You think you're so smart, don't you. You with your shabby clothes and that pathetic little car. What makes you so sure he's her father anyway? Were you there?"
Ashleigh took on a look of absolute piety. "I'm sure my aunt would never have allowed a pre-pubescent schoolgirl to witness such goings on. But I'm certain of one thing, Sheila. There is a bond of true love between Peter and Julie. I've seen it, and no-one has the right to stifle it. If you still need Peter's financial support, then Julie and he must spend a lot more time together. Otherwise, I don't understand why he has to keep paying you so much."
Her adversary snorted and glared at her ex-husband.
"I notice he hasn't said a word. Struck dumb as usual. I suppose you're his new legal representative, are you? Champion evader and twister of words?"
"I'm his friend, Mrs. Bushnall, just as Julie is also my friend. But if you want me to fork out nine-thousand pounds from this trust-fund that James is planning to organise, then I insist we spend at least three evenings a week with Julie. She can sleep with me if you like - I have two spare rooms."
"You need that many? Don't pull the wool over my eyes, young lady. I can imagine what's going on between you two, and I'm certainly not allowing Julietta to risk being in the same house as him."
"Why not? People wouldn't gossip, surely - he is her father."
"Huh! You're so cock-sure of that, aren't you. Well, perhaps I know different."
"If anybody can recall the truth, Mrs. Bushnall, I'm sure you can. But I can't think of any reason why you'd expect a complete stranger to support your child. By taking Peter to court, you've proved not only his involvement but also his rights. So again I say, if you need to see more of Peter's money, then in return he must see a lot more of Julie."
"Julietta is not for sale."
"Few of us can be bought, Mrs. Bushnall, and that includes me. Sorry to disappoint you. I take it we've reached an understanding?"
Sheila's eyes, previously cold and full of hatred, now looked fit to boil a kettle. Several times she opened her mouth as if to continue her tirade, but in the end she simply cocked her head and stalked off, climbing stiffly into her Volvo. She backed it recklessly out of the yard, and with another icy stare to express further thoughts she couldn't put into words, she finally put her foot down hard and roared away.
Ashleigh turned to Peter who was looking very subdued. "Are you okay, my love?"
"Not really. It's all been such a shock, seeing two weeks' hard work go up in smoke. I'm sure it can be restored, but somehow the place won't be the same. I'll always remember this day."
"We'll see," she said, putting her arm around him. "But you're right about one thing. That creature did her best to fry me alive. And it was horrid of her to imply that you mightn't be Julie's real father."
"Oh, don't worry on that score - that's a favourite trick of hers. When Sheila gets out her acid bottle she invariably ends up poisoning herself. I've only got to look into Julie's eyes and see that cute impish smile, and it's like staring into a mirror. That girl couldn't possibly have come from anyone but me. But why do I let that woman intimidate me? I should have defended Julie's honour. I shouldn't have left all the talking to you."
"Oh, it was good that you did. Remember, a woman must always have the last word, so ours was a fair contest. The next move is definitely hers."
"And what's your next move?"
"To visit Mr. Caplin and see what he knows about these investments."
"Well, don't rush it. Think carefully about Caplin's motives before you take him further into your confidence."
"You don't trust a soul, do you. Are you coming with me?"
"I think I'd like to do a little more ferreting if I may. Have you enough time to take me home first?"
"You think I intend leaving you here? Come on."
As soon as she pulled up outside the house, Ashleigh knew something was wrong. There was nothing to see - just a strange illogical sense of foreboding. When she tried to open the front door, she was in no doubt.
"That's odd," she said, "the door won't open. The key won't turn. It's as if someone's changed the locks. But why? Maybe it's no longer my house, but surely Mr. Caplin wouldn't be so cruel as to lock me out?"
"Not without fair notice. I'll go round the back."
"I don't have a key to the back door," she said, "I locked it from the inside."
"Be logical," he teased her. "If we can't get in this way, we obviously have to try somewhere else. Come on."
Entry, in fact, was all too easy. They found the back door wide open. As they were soon to realise, somebody had been in the house when they arrived, someone who fled on hearing Ashleigh fumbling at her front door.
Inside, the house was a mess. In the front room, every book had been pulled from the bookcase, and the antique writing desk was left wide open, with papers strewn everywhere.
They went upstairs and found a similar scene of desecration in Aunt Elsie's bedroom. Drawers had been flung onto the bed, and most of the old lady's personal possessions were tossed carelessly onto the floor.
"Mice!" declared Peter. "Little beggars, we must buy stronger cheese."
"But who could have done this, Peter, and on the same day as the other place was destroyed? You know something? It's too much of a coincidence."
"Oh, I'll say there's a connection all right. I think a certain somebody found a way of ensuring we'd both be out of this house at the same time. Something about that fire didn't add up. There was a melted plug by the wall, but it was nowhere near the bed which looked as if it had deliberately been vandalised. And how would a small fire in the bedroom cause those charred timbers downstairs? Flames go up, not down. No, I got the impression I was looking at the remains of three small fires, not one. It didn't do a lot of damage, but it achieved its purpose - it got us cats out of this house while the mice came here to play. The question is, what were the mice after?"
"Those investment certificates, I bet," said Ashleigh. "And it looks as if they found them too - they're certainly not here. Who the hell can have taken them?"
"Don't worry about that. Try logic again. If our little visitor was someone who knew they'd be here, that narrows the field considerably."
"Maybe, but it doesn't alter the fact that they're gone, and we've no proof they ever existed."
"Don't jump to conclusions. Ashleigh, love, you've got to trust me on this one. Do you still want to go and see Mr. Caplin?"
"There's no-one else I can turn to, apart from you."
Ashleigh phoned apologies through to her office and found her boss very sympathetic, saying they'd all seen it on the news and wondered if it was her friend's house. She then made an appointment to see Mr. Caplin at eleven o'clock, though on Peter's instructions she made no mention of the burglary.
Mr. Caplin seemed warmly sympathetic as he ushered them both into his private office and ordered coffee for three. He too was aware of the fire but seemed surprised to learn it indirectly involved one of his clients.
"Presumably a small electrical fault," he said. "Most unfortunate. Still, with these old places one can't be too careful. How's everything at home, Ashleigh? Getting much decorating done?"
"Plenty," said Peter quickly. "And we've also installed a new alarm system. I understand Miss Challon had masses of valuables hidden away, so Ashleigh and I felt it wise to ensure they stayed put. It's a neat and foolproof system of my own which I recently installed in the oast-house too, though a sprinkler might have been a wiser investment. After all, I had nothing worth stealing over there."
Caplin nodded. "No, indeed. So how can we help this morning?"
"We had another encounter with Sheila," Peter continued eagerly. "She's my ex-wife. We met her at the oast-house early this morning before coming straight here. I'm hardly a millionaire, Mr. Caplin, but I'm quite prepared to contribute towards my daughter's upkeep as long as I get reasonable access. I've left it with my ex-wife and her boy-friend to decide what they want to do about it."
Caplin shifted uncomfortably. "I see. Well, let's hope the situation soon sorts itself out."
"Indeed. Oh, and one other thing - is it possible we can have a copy of Miss Challon's will, just for the record? By a stroke of good fortune, Ashleigh's managed to track down a copy of her father's will, and she wants to make some comparisons."
"I don't follow."
Peter leaned forward earnestly. "Let me explain. Mr. Ferguson left Ashleigh a substantial sum of money which Elsie Challon reinvested in her own name. We wondered how she'd referred to it in her will. I mean, if she used it to pay off her mortgage, the house must surely belong now to Ashleigh. You do know about this, I presume? Or should we be talking to Miss Challon's accountant?"
Clive Caplin looked very uneasy. "I wasn't aware that Miss Challon employed the services of an accountant."
"Oh, but she did. We visited him the other day, and left a wad of investment certificates with him. I'm most surprised Miss Challon didn't confide in you about Ashleigh's inheritance."
"Well, yes, I remember something about it. I dealt with all the papers, naturally, but that was years ago. I doubt if we have a record of it now."
"That doesn't matter. The point is - did you at any time have power of attorney for Miss Challon? And can you still act in her name to release these investments? If not, we'll trot along to the bank with our letter of authority."
"Yes - will you excuse me for just a moment?"
Clive Caplin gave them the broadest of smiles and left the room.
"What are you on about?" whispered Ashleigh. "What's all this about an accountant?"
"Sh! Where do you think I went to the other day? Just sit still and leave the talking to me. I told you - trust me."
Caplin returned a moment later, looking red-faced, and carrying a file.
"Yes," he grinned, "we have a record here of the money paid over to you, Ashleigh, my dear, but that was eight years ago. Twenty thousand pounds - quite a tidy sum. Wasn't that when you bought your little car?"
"That's right," said Ashleigh, hoping she'd given the right answer.
"Good. So does that solve your query?"
"I think so," she said.
"Fine! Excellent!" He stood, ready to usher them out. "So the old girl's house is now burglar-proof, eh? A bit ironical though, and strange timing, surely - with the house about to be sold?"
"Oh, Ashleigh's not proposing to move out," Peter interrupted. "We've decided to buy it instead. But either way, my alarm system can easily be removed if we change our minds. It's just a hidden video camera and sound-sensing relay. If anyone comes in uninvited, we simply pop along with the tape and show his face to the police. Well, we'd best be on our way. Oh, and Ashleigh wanted to ask if there were any new developments on that business we talked about - you know - the strange phone call?"
"No," said Caplin quietly. "Not yet. But we'll keep in touch, eh?"
Neither of them said a word until they were safely back in the car.
"That man's playing some crafty game," Peter declared, "or my name's Bruce Wayne."
"And when does Batman propose explaining everything to Robin?"
"Didn't you enjoy it? Rather neat, I thought. Two hours ago, there you were with Sheila, pleading an excellent case on my behalf. Now I've just spent ten minutes waffling on about yours."
"Waffling?"
"Yes, my dear. I'm a salesman, we waffle all the time - I hope you were impressed?"
"I'd be more impressed to know why we came all this way just to waffle? I thought the aim was to find out who's got those documents?"
Back came the familiar smug smile. "Oh, I know who has the documents," he said. "They're safe here in my pocket. They've been there ever since yesterday morning."
Ashleigh felt like hitting him. "Then why the devil didn't you tell me two hours ago, or are you some kind of sadist?"
"Another Aunt Elsie, you mean? No, but if you'd known the truth earlier you might not have looked suitably concerned. That, my dear, was an exercise in devious diplomacy and body-language."
They returned home to find the mess looking even worse than before, prompting Ashleigh to suggest their little mouse might have returned for a second visit.
"Don't worry," said Peter, "I'm pretty sure he's not here now, and I say HE, because we certainly know where SHE was at the time."
"You're convinced this is the work of James Molyneux? But how can it benefit him to get his hands on those certificates? Can he forge Aunt Elsie's signature and draw out the money?"
"Knowing him, yes, but I don't think that's what he was after."
"What then?"
"Letters! Remember I told you I found a bundle of correspondence about your inheritance? I found something else too. It seems the prim and righteous Aunt Elsie was enjoying a few oats on the quiet."
"Oats? Oh, so in a sense, this was her oats-house? Sorry, sorry!"
"Pay attention. She definitely began a brief love affair with your father, hopefully before your mother came on the scee. But another family friend filled the gap after that - and my vote goes to Clive Caplin. Now you may say there's nothing wrong in that - solicitors are entitled to their peccadilloes, same as anyone else - provided they remain discreet. But enter Mr. James Molyneux, as unscrupulous a turkey as you'll ever fall foul of! Somehow, he stumbles across Mr. Caplin's indiscretions and decides to make dirty capital out of it."
"You mean blackmail?"
"Call it what you will, I guess Molyneux's little scheme was running along quite smoothly until pure coincidence brought your life and mine onto parallel paths. That led to Sheila poking her nose into your affairs as well as mine, which effectively brought things to a head. And it puts poor old Caplin in rather a spot, forcing him to sack his own blackmailer. You can understand his reluctance to do much about that."
"But how does my hundred thousand pounds fit into all this?"
"Mr. Caplin should be concentrating his mind on that right now. Maybe he did agree to overlook certain details in order to keep Aunt Elsie's cheeks red and rosy. All I'm saying is that he's by no means up front, which is why I sold him all that flannel just now. The more he feels he's losing control, the sooner he'll come clean with us - in fact I reckon it's about time we'd phoned him. If I'm wrong about this, I could be in deep trouble - but as we said last night, things can hardly get much worse."
While Peter was dialling through to Clive Caplin's office, Ashleigh went upstairs and listened on the extension beside her bed.
"Mr. Caplin," said Peter, "it's Bushnall here - I'm afraid Ashleigh's just had the most awful shock - she's just got home to find the place ransacked. Luckily nothing appears to be stolen. All Aunt Elsie's jewels and souvenirs seem to be intact. But we suspect there might be some documents missing - certain items Ashleigh may know nothing about."
After a pause, Clive Caplin concluded wearily: "Perhaps I'd better come over. Do you happen to know who it was who broke in?"
"Oh yes," said Peter with a lilt to his voice, "we most certainly do, and believe me, he's no friend of mine."
"I'll be there in half an hour."
Ashleigh came downstairs straight away. "I'm curious," she said. "What makes you so sure Clive isn't on the level? You think he knew all along we were being broken into this morning?"
"I'm sure of it, though he may have been powerless to prevent it. But he knew all right - remember he made a point of fishing for details about my alarm system? Did you notice his face when I mentioned hidden cameras? I bet you it's the first subject he'll raise when he gets here."
Peter was right. Caplin looked warily about him as he entered the hall. "I wouldn't want anything I say to be recorded," he warned. "That would be against the law, you know."
"Mr. Caplin, we're prepared to trust you. Why don't you trust us?"
"Would you like a cup of tea?" asked Ashleigh.
The man looked tired and grateful. "Lovely, my dear. And I'm so sorry about all this mess."
"Aunt Elsie would have had hysterics, but it's nothing we can't put right. I'm sure it's not your fault."
"If only that were true," he sighed. "You'd better hear what I have to say first - it won't take long. I don't know how much you've already found out from James and his friend, but my relationship with your late aunt wasn't entirely professional. Do I have to spell it out? I provided her with services she needed, and - well, I in turn had my own needs satisfied. It's an ugly business, but I gather she foolishly mentioned it to her previous solicitor - which is when James found out and decided I was worth pursuing. I thought with Elsie's death it would all blow over and be forgotten - but that didn't suit James's arrangements. From what you say, you obviously recognised him on your video. I knew he intended coming some time. That fire was just the opportunity he needed."
"Do you think he started it?" said Ashleigh.
"My dear, there's no knowing what that tyke might do. But my dilemma was that if I shopped him, I'd also shop myself. So I was stuck - a constant victim to his demands. I even gave him use of my new Volvo after selling the previous one to your aunt."
The man looked so sad and dejected that Ashleigh went over at once and put her arms around him.
"Mr. Caplin," she said, "and I'd much rather call you Uncle Clive - I can see you're upset, but none of what you're saying actually affects me. My sole concern is that I get what's due to me from Aunt Elsie's estate."
"Well, I have to confess your aunt's will isn't entirely valid - it reflects her wishes, though not explicitly - we deliberately left it cloaked in obscure legacies. She wanted me to benefit in some way, without actually naming me, you understand. It's all very demeaning."
"So was my hundred pounds," said Ashleigh. "But tell me honestly, Clive - did she love me?"
"My dear girl, what can I say? You want me to say yes, I know, but the truth is - you kept getting in the way. She was a very strange woman - and I certainly didn't love her. We merely had - an arrangement - that's all."
"And were you aware that my parents left me far more money than I was actually given?"
"Your aunt did mention something to that effect, saying you needed to be taught a lesson on the true value of money. She was a disciplinarian, if I'm not being too explicit - a true sadist, right to the end. But what she did with the rest of your money, I honestly have no idea."
"Then you'd better take a look at these," said Peter, handing him the certificates.
Clive studied them for a moment, and his eyes brightened.
"This is wonderful, Ashleigh. I'm so relieved for you, really."
"But can I use them?" she asked. "I never signed anything, so they've no way of checking up on who I am."
"I can soon sort that out," he said. "You keep these in a very safe place, and I'll write a letter of authority right away. Fortunately, these are things that sticky-fingered James Molyneux knows nothing about. All you need now, ironically, is a letter from a reputable solicitor - a man of supposedly impeccable integrity," he added, shaking his head.
In due course, three separate letters arrived from Clive Caplin's office, all in the same envelope. One was worded in official language, announcing that Ashleigh's investments seemed to be in order. Another detailed a provision in Aunt Elsie's will giving her executor full authority to make substantial contributions towards the restoration and refurbishment of the damaged oast-house. The third was a chatty note, full of diplomatically worded apologies and thanks, ending with the news that his former clerk, James Molyneux, had suddenly disappeared without trace.
From other sources Peter learned that the oast-house fire was deemed officially to be the work of teenage vandals. Traces of firelighters had been found in the vicinity of the water-bed, though local gossips confirmed that the ring-leader was an outsider by the name of James. Peter was fully commended for leaving lights on in the building, but advised that in a remote village he should consider the added deterrent of a family car parked nearby, or the sound of quiet music coming from within, to prevent his property from looking deserted.
A letter came too from Sheila Bushnall, announcing that she was going abroad in the near future to an unspecified destination. She practically begged Peter to give Julie a good home while she was gone, hinting that her absence might be for some considerable time. Peter responded at once by lifting the phone to offer his ex-wife his formal blessing and to assure her that Julie was welcome to come and stay as soon as ever she wanted to.
"Well," said Ashleigh, as they sat together with their after-dinner coffee. "If the real Julie's coming for a long stay, my own foolish hopes of usurping her place look a trifle bleak."
"Dare I suggest you consider a rather different role?" responded Peter. "Julie needs a new Mum full of loving kindness, and I can't think of anyone better suited to the role than you."
"Okay," Ashleigh retorted, "that effectively wraps up the question of Julie, so let's turn to the next candidate. What about Peter? What are his immediate needs?"
"Ashleigh, my love, you know my needs. I've got an oast-house that needs cleaning and making habitable before I can think of claiming compensation from any motorway or rail-link builders, or whoever comes along to pull it all down again."
"Don't be cynical. I was thinking of your personal needs."
"Ah!" he smiled. "You know me. I'm a salesman, and there's a certain product-line I keep trying to sell you. If I persevere then hopefully the day may come when I eventually prove to be successful."
"In that case, my darling, don't give up, because I really am ready to become your best and most prestigious customer - maybe sooner than you think."
"Prestigious?"
"You know - important, influential, with status and distinction - that sort of thing."
"Really? Hand me the dictionary. I thought so," he added with a smug chuckle. "The word Prestigious comes from the Latin for a juggler - it means deceptive." He closed the book with a loud snap. "It's a term which applies more aptly to Mr. James Molyneux. But then if you intended to imply importance - especially to me - there are many other words you could have used. Can I just ask though - is anything simmering on your cooker?"
Ashleigh shook her hand.
"Because if not," Peter continued, "I'd very much like us to resume what we abandoned rather hurriedly the other night. Preferably before Julie gets here."
They rose to their feet. Ashleigh dutifully closed her eyes, her thoughts not on England, but her own intimate surroundings, her long-term future, and in particular the thirty-five-year-old father of young Julie Bushnall.
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