Animal Instincts by Alan Titchmarsh

Author:Alan Titchmarsh [Titchmarsh, Alan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781471152955
Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK

Chapter 18: String of Sovereigns

(Lysimachia nummularia)

Kit wondered how the solicitor managed to find anything in the overcrowded cell that was his office. Thick buff files were piled upon thick pink files, bundles of pink-ribboned documents slithered in disorderly cascades between them, and fat, gilt-titled books teetered in precarious towers against the grimy cream-painted wall. The solicitor sat, like a grey Buddha, in the centre of the paper jungle, a ginger nut and a mug of coffee at his elbow, his glasses on the tip of his nose. He gazed at Kit over the rims as he did his best to answer the question.

“As far as goods and chattels are concerned, Mr Lavery, I think you can now dispose of whatever you wish without any problem.”

“And the house . . . the reserve?”

“Well, I’ve had no problems, and probate should be through within a few weeks now, so you could certainly begin negotiations. Start things moving. It’s only the final sale that will have to wait until everything is tied up.”

“So I could see the estate agent and get things going?”

“I should think so, yes.”

“And you’ll let me know the moment you hear anything?”

The little man nodded. “Of course. Ah. There is one thing.” He rummaged through the heap of papers on his desk. “This arrived for you a couple of days ago.” He handed Kit a large transparent packet upon which the name of a London auction house was stamped in black letters in the top left hand corner.

“For me?”

“Yes. It looks like a catalogue.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t meant for my father?”

“The label is addressed to Mr Christopher Lavery, not to Mr Rupert Lavery. It’s also been directed here rather than to the farmhouse.”

“Odd.” Kit pulled at the polythene and removed the fat booklet. “It’s a sale of natural-history books. Next month. Can’t be for me. It must have been intended for Dad.” He thumbed through the pages. “Mind you, I can’t see Dad paying this sort of money for books. Perhaps they got the name wrong.”

The solicitor shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Kit tucked the catalogue under his arm and left the solicitor to his coffee and gingernut.

A million thoughts ran through his head on the drive back to West Yarmouth, including the fact that he was still at the wheel of the yellow Fiat Punto. Funny that Jinty was so scathing about it; he’d become quite used to it. Changing it for a more expensive BMW or Mercedes seemed an unnecessary expense. He turned down the lane to the reserve and had to pull in sharply to allow a Volvo estate that he didn’t recognise to pass. At the front of the house he discovered Elizabeth looking about her nervously, like a child who had been caught stealing sweets.

Kit parked by the barn, got out of the car and walked towards her. “Who was that?”

“Oh . . . callers.” She was agitated, not herself at all.

“What sort of callers? Do they think we’re open?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“They were invited.”

“By who?”

“Me.”

Kit regarded her with curiosity.

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