The Pendlehurst Collection

The Pendlehurst Collection

Daphne Coleridge

Copyright © Daphne Coleridge 2013

The Pendlehurst Legacy

The Pendlehurst Garden Mystery

The Pendlehurst Purple

The Pendlehurst Hop

The Pendlehurst Legacy

Do you think this is a scam? asked Grace, furrowing her brow over a formal-looking letter she had just pulled out of an envelope.

What does it say? asked her flat-mate, Mia, indicating by a complicated movement of her shoulders that, as she was buttering toast with one hand whilst trying to apply mascara with the other, she wasn’t in any position to take the missive herself. Monday mornings were always something of a muddle with the two of them in a rush to get out to work.

Basically that my great uncle, Toby Hart, has died and I am the sole beneficiary in his will. It’s from a firm of solicitors called Chivers and Blunkett and the letter is signed by a Simon Chivers. He invites me to go and see him on Wednesday.

Scam! said Mia in a decisive tone, as she tried to put her hair into a ponytail and marmalade onto her toast simultaneously. It’s like those letters people get saying that you have been left a fortune, but the funds are all tied up somewhere and you’ll have to write a cheque up-front in order to get them released. You write the cheque and that’s the last you hear of it. It’s not as if you even had a Great Uncle Toby.

Actually, I did, said Grace, a rather distant look coming into her serious, grey eyes. Not that I ever met him – he wasn’t actually a blood relation. My grandfather had a sister, Margaret, who married someone called Toby, but she died about two years later and they never had any children. That was before my father was even born and I don’t think my grandfather kept in touch with her husband. He mentioned Toby once or twice. I think he lived in a big house down in Kent, and this solicitor is in Kent.

Well, check it out if you are curious, said Mia, now throwing things into a bag and making for the front door. Just don’t go paying the solicitor if he says he has to follow up leads or anything. Will they give you a day off work at short notice?

Don’t see why not, things are pretty quiet at the moment.

Just remember, if you really have been left a fortune, who spent the last year picking your clothes up off the floor and putting them into the washing machine for you, said Mia with a wink.

Yes, but that is the only thing you do around the flat! Grace called after her.

The weather for Wednesday was forecast as a fine, mid-autumn day and Grace wasn’t sorry to be heading out of London. She had done a little research on the internet and checked on a map, so she knew that she was heading for an address on the high street of a picturesque village. Mia had warned her that the solicitor would probably be a sinister character who would lead her off to a deserted manor house and she would never be heard of again. Grace retorted that Mr Chivers was no doubt ancient and decrepit and she would have no problems fighting him off. Mia had just started on the possibility of him being a vampire when she realised she was going to be late for her train. The office Grace arrived at after a bus journey from the station was small and neat and occupied by Mr Chivers and his secretary: there didn’t appear to be a Blunkett. The secretary ushered Grace into the office where she saw a tall, rather angular young man with sandy hair and a freckled face. Far from being decrepit, she guessed he was only a couple of years older than she was. He certainly looked under thirty.

Miss Taylor, said the sandy-haired solicitor, so good of you to come. May I offer you a coffee? Remembering Mia’s dire warning, Grace declined the offer of a coffee with a shake of her head – not that she seriously thought he would drug her, but she was all ready to be cautious. Well, let’s proceed, said the young man. What do you know about Mr Hart?

Only that I heard my grandfather mention that his sister had been briefly married to someone called Toby, replied Grace. I think she died quite young.

That is correct, nodded the solicitor. Toby Hart married Margaret Taylor but she died without issue. He never remarried. My father looked after Mr Hart’s affairs for many years and I gather he cut a rather lonely figure. The story is that he was very much in love with his wife and never recovered from the shock of her untimely death. He lived at Pendlehurst Manor as a recluse until his death recently. He was in his late eighties. Now, do you want the good news or the bad news?

The bad news, said Grace, fully expecting a request for funds if she wanted to pursue any claim on the estate, and determined to refuse.

Well, the bad news is that there is no money left in the estate, said Simon Chivers. Mr Hart has survived over the years by selling off pretty much everything of value from the house and exhausting all the money he inherited – which was not, as I understand it, a great deal in the first place. The estate, by the way, has belonged to the Hart family for centuries. It is a delightful place, although very run-down now. Anyway, by the time I settle all Mr Hart’s debts and deal with inheritance tax as executor of his will, there won’t be anything more than small change left.

Is that what I will inherit, then? asked Grace, wondering what small change meant in legal terminology.

Yes – that and Pendlehurst Manor itself, which is unencumbered: that is, there is no mortgage or charge over the house or suchlike.

So I get a house? said Grace in surprise.

Yes, replied Simon, but I should warn you that it is in a state of considerable disrepair and a house like that is something of a drain on the pocket. As soon as it becomes legally yours, you will be responsible for all the basic bills – council tax and so forth, which is quite a financial demand with a property of this size. That is why I warned you that there was no money left to you. He seemed to be examining Grace’s cheap plastic shoulder bag and scruffy coat as if to assess her financial means.

I do work, said Grace, slightly nettled by the look. But by the time I’ve paid rent and bills and travelling expenses I only just make ends meet each month – you know how it is...? She looked at the young man’s well tailored suit and gold cuff links and decided that he probably didn’t know what it was like for the majority of young people in their first job. I don’t like the idea of inheriting something if it just means taking on a heap of bills I can’t pay. Is it mine whether I want it or not?

No, said Simon with a small smile, you can decline the bequest, although there are no other beneficiaries in this case. You could enter into a deed of variation and give the house to a charity, for example. There are various options we can discuss, but I suggest that you come and take a look at the place first. If you feel it would be a burden you can, of course, just sell it.

How do I get there? asked Grace.

I’ll drive you over, said the solicitor. Just give me one moment to inform my secretary where I am going.

Ten minutes later and Grace was seated next to Simon Chivers in his sleek silver sports car wondering what Mia would say if she knew that she was going alone to the mysterious manor house with this man, who was effectively a stranger. At the same time she couldn’t help feeling excited. The idea of inheriting an ancient house held a romantic appeal to her whatever the practical difficulties proved to be. They drove out of the village and down a lane and through some rusted iron gates into a wooded area of golden autumnal trees. And then the park opened out before them and Grace caught a first glimpse of Pendlehurst Manor. It was a beautiful, well-proportioned stone-built house with tall chimneys and an entrance set in a small tower. There were no formal gardens but a few deer were grazing nonchalantly here and there as if they were the true possessors of this patch of neglected land.

It’s not a huge house, Simon commented. About a hundred rooms and a couple of courtyards. It was built in the fifteenth century. I have a book somewhere written by a local man with its history if you are interested.

Oh, um...yes, said Grace, who was still trying to reconcile a hundred rooms and not huge.

Simon pulled the car up on some weed-covered gravel immediately in front of the entrance to the house. Up close the signs of neglect and decay were apparent – from a distance the place had retained an illusion of mellow perfection. Now Grace could see the broken gutters, the crumbling stones and even broken window panes. Once inside, the problem was even more manifest. The house was still grand – with oak panelled walls and a fine, sweeping staircase – but there were damp patches on the ceiling and the decorative plasterwork was flaking away in places. Grace could also see straight away that Simon hadn’t been exaggerating when he said that everything of value had been sold off. Most rooms were barely furnished, and what remained was pretty poor stuff. There were a few paintings left on the walls, and some cracked and unattractive vases on ugly sideboards and heavy tables. The remaining carpets were threadbare. One interesting feature that caught Grace’s eye, however, was the repeated motif of a stag which was carved both in wood and stone. She assumed, rightly, that these were there to represent the family name of Hart.

This is where old Mr Hart actually lived, said Simon, leading Grace up the stairs and to a bedroom at the front. It was a splendid old room with a lovely view over the park to the woods beyond, but had been converted into something like a shabby bedsit. There were a couple of electric fires shoved in corners and a small hotplate on which Toby Hart could have heated a can of soup, but not much more.  A drab room with a chipped bath was through an adjoining door. Grace noticed some paraphernalia associated with the old man’s final illness on a dressing table, but also a black and white photograph in a tarnished silver frame. The picture showed a young couple on their wedding day. The man smiled with happiness and his sweet young bride stood looking at him with adoration. It seemed sad to think that this was the man who had eked out a lonely existence in the vast, empty house. And yet, despite all this, Grace could still feel the intrinsic nobility of the place.

Seen enough? asked Simon.  We could take a short walk in the grounds if you like. I believe there are about five hundred acres.

Grace nodded mutely in agreement and they descended the stairs and emerged from the gloomy interior, blinking a little in the warm sunlight. Despite his city-smart suit and generally dapper appearance, Simon seemed quite game for a walk through the long grass and ferns and even into the woods. It was certainly more wilderness than gardens, but the whole place had a wild beauty to it and Grace felt an immediate affinity to the place. She may have only just seen it, but some part of her knew she never wanted to leave.  At twenty-five Grace had had a couple of steady boyfriends, but she had never been in love. Suddenly she was experiencing the lightning-strike of love-at-first-sight. She spoke very little in the car to Simon and barely took in the information he was giving her about formalities regarding Toby Hart’s will. He had offered to drop her back at the station and as Grace was thanking him and stepping out of the car the solicitor said,

"Oh! – I nearly forgot; there is also an envelope here which Mr Hart addressed