Almost Eden Read online

  ‘Tis a cosy cottage when the fires raging, not much to heat up, but the walls is always cold.’

  Back at the house, we checked the hose in the mud, a spout of black water seen, and I left Robby to fix the outside walls as I placed soaps in the three toilets that the house offered – two up and one down. I stacked up toilet rolls in each, as if expecting visitors, then I used enough bleach to both negate my new green credentials – and to poison every fish in the estuary. Still, the place smelt better.

  Leaving many windows open, to air the place, I started on the old fire. Dry newspapers were scrunched up, kindling placed on top, then logs, finally coal that I had found in a dated bucket. The fire took well enough, soon heating the old boiler behind the fireplace. Dated it may have been, but it worked, radiators soon feeling warm to the touch. I aimed to keep the fire going tonight, to warm the place up overnight – a vain attempt to cure the damp.

  Using a coin, I let air out of radiators that dated back to the 1970s, and those radiators were soon hot to the touch. I closed the windows and allowed the inside of the house to warm up.

  ‘Cold?’ Robby puzzled.

  ‘No, but I thought I’d warm the place up for a day or two and clear the damp.’

  ‘Your aunty, she was not one for using the heating much, save the fire in her bedroom.’

  ‘Well, it seems to work well enough, radiators are warm. And, if the heating works, it might make it easier to sell.’

  When the hose pipe finally stopped issuing water, a full six hours later, we reeled it in. Torch in hand, Robby stepped down into the dark. ‘Just about eight inches left,’ echoed up.

  ‘Anything in there?’ I shouted down.

  ‘Aye, wooden cabinets, metal one an all. Rotten I reckon.’

  I rolled my eyes. After twenty or thirty years under water, I also figured they might be rotten or rusted.

  When he reappeared, cobwebs in his hair, he said, ‘Seems like a hatch to the outside.’

  I followed him to the garden, and to the side of the house facing the beach, Robby now carrying a spade.

  He pointed. ‘There I reckon.’

  I could now make out an area of old concrete that defined a square, part of it submerged below garden soil. Digging in, Robby soon removed six inches of top soil – and a few flowers, starting to tap against the wall. Wedging in the spade, he loosened old concrete and nudged it out. I lifted a large section away, Robby loosening a second block.

  ‘Same smell,’ I said.

  Using the spade, he smashed in what thin layer of concrete remained a barrier to us, and we heard it plop into water, the smell intensifying. With a hole now some two feet across, he said, ‘Leave that a day or two, get some air in.’

  ‘How big is it?’ I asked as we both straightened up.

  ‘Same size as house.’

  I stopped dead. ‘The cellar … has the same floor space as the house?’

  He nodded a confirmation, leaving me staggered. That was one big cellar, and I had to wonder why the original owners had built it that way. Foolishly, I had not examined the house deeds when they had been presented to me by the solicitor; those deeds probably included the cellar on a sketch of the place, as well as the course of the pipe from the underground water storage unit.

  Robby returned to scraping the outside walls, and I decided to check the attic. So far there had been no valuable family heirlooms found, but the silverware looked like it might be worth something. I placed a sturdy table on the landing, a chair beside it and another chair on the table itself. There was a convenient handhold on the wall, lest I should fall, and I gripped it as I clambered up onto the table. With one foot on the chair, I reached up and pushed the attic cover open, sliding it to one side.

  Stood fully erect on the chair, my shoulders were now inside the dark attack – just a few pinpoints of light visible, but I still had a good grip on the handrail. Above me, another metal grip presented itself, a hand testing its strength. I lifted up, a hand on the attic hatch, a foot now on the handrail below, and I eased into the attic easily enough.

  The mad flapping of wings startled me, something flying past me and out of some unseen hole. With my eyes adjusting to the dark, I could now see boxes shaped like tea crates, enough to take a week to look through.

  Seeing a dated white switch on a vertical beam, I nervously flicked it, but was not electrocuted. Three dull bulbs came to life, revealing the extent of the attic. Kneeling, and testing what I might walk on, I realised that the attic floor - the bedroom ceilings, was solid concrete; the wooden beams in the rooms below were for show, and this place had been built to last. I tested my weight, and stepped across to the first box, my torch hung around my neck.

  The first box offered up simply dozens of old newspapers, most from the 1960s and 1970s. I wondered if they might be collectors’ items as I scanned the stories of strikes, the oil crisis in The Middle East, and of financial turmoil. ‘Nothing much has changed,’ I quipped. ‘That could be today’s headline!’

  A second box contained dusty magazines, plus a silver music box. Leaving the music box near the hatch, I tackled a third box, finding rotten cardboard, rotten newspapers, inside of which were dozens of silver goblets and tea pots.

  ‘She must have liked to collect them,’ I muttered, moving on to the next box.

  That revealed more silver goblets, wrapped in damp newspaper, about thirty of them, and I had to consider that Aunt Betty liked her silverware. The next box was packed tightly, and I found myself pulling out silver tea trays, dozens of them. Lifting one to the bulb, I scanned it as best I could with my untrained eye. It looked genuine, and expensive.

  Heaving a sigh, and staring ahead for a moment, I took out my phone. I had a signal, but not a great signal. Having selected a number, I pressed green.

  ‘Hello?’ came from the phone.

  ‘Peter, it’s Roger Bannister.’

  ‘Hey, Roger, been a while.’

  ‘Yes, have to catch up. Listen, I inherited my aunt’s house in Devon and … I’m cleaning up the attack, and I found a silver tea tray. How do I know if it’s any good, has some value?’

  ‘Turn it over, look dead centre, tell me what you see.’

  ‘There are … four marks, stamped into it. One centre, the others at twelve o’clock, three and nine.’ I described the marks.

  ‘Yep, genuine.’

  ‘Worth much?’

  ‘Three … four grand at auction.’

  With my mouth opening, I took in the dozen silver trays in the box below me.

  ‘You there?’ came a voice.

  ‘Yes, sorry.’

  ‘Have a look on the front, and if there’s a name of someone then it can be traced. They were presented to people as awards, and there’s a master list at the Assay Office, Birmingham.’

  ‘Thanks … I … I will.’ I hung up, and hugged my phone close to my chest. ‘Bloody hell.’

  My aunt had inherited this house from a lady she had worked faithfully for … for some ten years, and it had always been a mystery to the family as to why, since people did not generally leave large estates to the hired help; my aunt had been a simple child minder.

  Having inherited the house and the land, she had worked part time to make ends meet, and had always come across as being poor. Land-rich, granted, and with a nice big house – that needed work, but she was poor, save what I recalled about rent from the fields. She had not married, didn’t deal in antiques as far as we knew, so … so where the hell had all the silver come from?

  Three boxes later I was worried; seems that my aunt had been a master silver thief. Or … or it was here all along, and … and my aunt was just too stupid to have the stuff appraised, living simply all her life. I shook my head. Something was very wrong here.

  Taking the silver tea tray down, I went and found Robby. I was not sure if I should confide in him, but I needed answers before calling the police – or before the police came looking for me.

  ‘Robby, have you seen these before?’ I asked, presenting the tray.

  He rubbed his brow with a sleeve. ‘Seen one like ‘at in village, in window of shop.’

  ‘No, here.’

  ‘Here? Can’t rightly say I have.’

  ‘Robby, this is worth thousands.’

  ‘Thousands?’ He gave me a sceptical look. ‘Can’t be.’

  ‘It is, I rang a friend who knows about stuff like this.’

  ‘But the old lady was poor, happen I once lent her some money, a few pounds.’

  ‘Some … some old people hoard things,’ I found myself saying, but I didn’t believe my own words.

  ‘Yours now, I reckon.’

  ‘So long as it’s not stolen.’

  ‘Stolen?’ Robby was offended. ‘The old lady never stole nothing. Honest as the day was long was your aunty.’

  ‘Robby, there are hundreds of these in the attic. Hundreds.’

  ‘Hundreds?’

  ‘Yes,’ I carefully mouthed. ‘And each is worth thousands!’

  ‘Well I’ll be buggered. All ‘em years she struggled along.’ He became tearful and looked away, surprising me. ‘Would have been nice to take her for a good meal, warm her up in the winter, and … and she had them up there.’

  ‘She must have known,’ I softly insisted.

  ‘Wouldn’t rightly see her climbing up that attic.’

  ‘Well … no, it’s a bit tricky. Was there ever a ladder?’

  ‘Not that I can recall. She never went into the attic, nor down the cellar.’

  ‘And I dread to think what’s in there.’

  He faced me squarely. ‘You think there’s summit of value?’

  ‘Could well be.’ I blew out hard, examining the tray. The inscribed writing seemed to show 1835. I lifted my phone, and called Peter again. ‘Peter, Roger. Sorry to be a pain, but this is kind of important. Got a pen? 1835, Mark A. Horshom, Captain, Lancers something or other.’

  ‘Hold on, I’ll Google it.’

  I waited, pacing up and down.

  ‘You there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s genuine, matches the stamps you described.’

  ‘Is it stolen?’

  ‘Stolen? Hang on.’

  I paced up and down, staring across the estuary at the sheep on the hill, Robby returning to his wall.

  ‘Roger, it was lost at sea, 1935, on its way to the States.’

  ‘Got news for you, it was offloaded in Devon and pinched.’

  ‘Ship sailed from Plymouth.’

  ‘Plymouth is just down the road from where I’m stood right now. Where does this leave me, having inherited this item?’

  ‘If it was pinched, it’s well beyond any time period of culpability, and the original thieves are all dead, but … the descendants of the original owners may have a claim. Do you want me to dig into it?’

  ‘Yes, please, but … discreetly.’

  ‘Be a reward for handing it back, maybe … twenty percent of current market value. I’ll find out and call you back.’

  I led Robby inside, and we made a cup of tea, the tray on the table, little said at first.

  I finally blew out, and said, ‘That tray, it was part if a consignment that went missing on its way to America in 1935, on a ship from Plymouth.’

  ‘Someone had it away, someone local,’ Robby realised. ‘Maybe the people who had this house before. Name was Norton, Captain Norton.’

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘Of a ship like.’

  ‘That ties it together. He stole it!’

  ‘His ship was lost off Cornwall they said, and the widow lived yer, four kids. And you’s aunt, she nursed them kids for ten year, and the mother died.’

  ‘Why didn’t the kids get this house? Or sell it?’

  ‘They died in war they says, and after the war your aunt – she got the house.’

  I raised a finger. ‘During the war, my aunt was a nurse, in Egypt and The Middle East – at least for a few years. This silver was stolen in 1935, the family died before the end of the war you say, so before 1945. When did my aunt come here?’

  ‘1952 I reckon; twas on a letter I saw one time. It’s here someplace, that letter.’

  ‘I first came here as a baby, around 1955 or 1956 – so my parents told me. So why the hell did she not sell the silver?’

  ‘Happen you think she knew it taken?’ Robby asked.

  ‘She could have reported it to the police, if she was as honest as we believe her to be.’

  ‘Sometimes, folk does strange things for strange reasons.’ He shook his head. ‘Old farmer up on moor, he died a pauper, and when they cleared the house they found gold coins, worth a king’s ransom. He had ‘em, but he never sold ‘em.’

  I nodded my agreement, and sipped my tea. ‘Yes, there have been a few strange tales like that. But what reason could she have to sit here and suffer all those years, and not help herself.’

  ‘She’d be the first one to tell you she’d not suffer. Loved it here she did, and in summer would sit outside for hours, staring down the estuary.’

  ‘Yes, she did seem to be very attached to the place. But it’s not like she lived here when married, or raised kids here. She lived alone from day one.’

  ‘She must have fallen in love with the old place when she worked here, during the war like.’

  ‘Yes,’ I finally agreed. ‘Ten years is a long time, and she was … fourteen or so I believe when she started here. I wonder … if she had a lover here, at age sixteen or eighteen.’

  ‘In ‘em days you married young,’ Robby pointed out.

  Half an hour later my phone trilled. Heaving an expectant sigh, I answered the call from Peter.

  ‘Roger, that tray was part of a large consignment lost at sea.’

  ‘Not so lost, it’s here in my hand, along with a hundred other pieces.’

  ‘Jesus. Then someone stole it before the ship sailed. But the good news is … that ship sank.’

  ‘Sank?’

  ‘Sank off Ireland, all hands lost.’

  ‘How is that good news?’ I testily asked.

  ‘Shippers got the insurance, a full payout, and they can’t be reimbursed twice. It’s yours, old friend, although there may be some odd tax position regarding the recovery of treasure once the insurance has paid out. I’m not sure, but the Assay Office or The Crown may want fifty percent tax. I’ll have to check with an expert, there have only been a few cases like this - ever.’

  ‘Thanks, Peter, and please … be discreet. If I need legal counsel we’ll meet, and see the experts together. Thanks.’

  I faced an expectant Robby, my employee now stood squinting in the bright sunshine. ‘It’s legal for me to sell it, but I may have to pay fifty percent tax – which is no big deal.’

  He lowered his head and shook it. ‘How come she never had no treats, and it was there all along.’

  ‘I’ll go through the house papers, and … I’ll see what I can find. I’ll also see that old solicitor, and rattle his cage. If he knew about any of this … he’s in trouble!’

  ‘Best be keeping it quiet, boss. Folks around here might think it worth having away.’

  He had a point, and I suddenly felt vulnerable, especially with twenty thousand pounds of cash in the car. Still, no one had come down to vandalise the place, it was isolated, and Robby was here at night. And Robby was scary, even to me – and in the daylight!

  After some careful thought, I called Mark Pugh on the number I had for him, his mobile number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mark Pugh?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Roger Bannister, the man who inherited Betty Hobson’s -’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Sorry to trouble you on a Saturday, but I have … a problem, or two. And I need to speak with your father urgently. First, I know it’s a Saturday, but could I lodge another envelope with you today?’

  ‘I’m in the office for the next hour, catching up.’

  I had to wonder just what a quiet rural solicitor had to catch up on. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so. Now, I need to speak with your father urgently, whilst he still has a license to practise law.’

  ‘What … what are saying?’

  ‘That’s between me and him. When do you think I could see him?’

  ‘I … could get him here in half an hour.’

  ‘Do so, please, I’m on my way.’ I cut the call. Informing Robby I would be an hour, I grabbed the silver tray and headed for the car, soon driving up the access road.

  Four slow tractors later, I made it to a busy Kingsbridge, and I parked where I had done previously, in the pub car park. Covering the silver tray in a jumper, the day now hot – the inside of my car even hotter, I grabbed the large brown envelope with the cash in and headed across the road. The door was again ajar, and I clambered up the steep steps. I found an empty outer office, but heard voices, Pugh and son stepping out – both in casual suits.

  ‘You’d be Pugh the elder,’ I testily noted.

  ‘Yes, and I’d like to know what the hell is going on?’

  ‘So would I,’ I theatrically let out. ‘But first, as a good client, I would like to lodge this envelope containing more cash.’ Mark Pugh took the envelope, his father staring at me, ruddy faced and looking more like a farmer in a suit than a solicitor.

  With Mark having closed the safe and returned, we settled about a low coffee table, their waiting area.

  I began, ‘I understand that you handled the original will for my Aunt, Betty Hobson.’

  ‘I did,’ Pugh senior formally confirmed.

  ‘And … is there anything you can tell me, anything at all, that I should know?’

  Pugh senior glanced at his son, the young man now appearing more worried than he should – assuming they had done no wrong. ‘No, it was … all straight forwards enough.’

  ‘And yet … my aunt was a nanny at that house, for a few years during the war, and after the war inherited a large and valuable estate – 1952 I believe. Very … kind of the previous owners.’ I waited. ‘Any clues?’

  ‘None of my business,’ Pugh senior insisted.

  ‘Leaving that mystery aside, my aunt then left me the house, and did so – at your hand – in 1968, yes?’