Dying by the Book by Judith Cutler

Author:Judith Cutler [Judith Cutler]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2019-11-18T16:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

We’d joked, hadn’t we, about stately homes? And here we were outside one.

‘Wow,’ Claire said, ‘I didn’t know Brum had anything like this. Hang on – I thought Mrs B was supposed to be Labour!’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘this is part of the Calthorpe Estate.’

‘Calthorpe Estate? You must remember I’m an immigrant.’ For a moment she turned on a Liverpool accent.

While she cut the engine and we unclipped our seat belts, I got into didactic mode. ‘Early in the nineteenth century, Birmingham had to expand. The old town was around the Colmore Row, Newhall Street area. But as the factory owners got rich, they wanted appropriate homes – well away from the stinking masses. So a clever entrepreneur bought up a lot of land in Edgbaston and built some very pukka houses. All either big or bijou but posh. Not a pleb for miles except the servants. I’ll give you a guided tour afterwards, if you like – there are some lovely buildings.’

Claire pulled a face. ‘Thanks but no thanks. I’ve got my man’s tea to cook.’

I felt a pang. Warwickshire had started an away match this morning, and Mike wouldn’t be there when I got home. Nor tomorrow nor the day after. He’d try and make it for the Bookfest reception, but I knew he couldn’t guarantee even that.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Anyway, checking this over will take hours.’ Funny, anyone would think I didn’t want to go home. I always wanted to go home. Didn’t I? I didn’t now, not if I was to be assailed by soi-disant affectionate messages from someone I didn’t want to know. And then I remembered. Andy would be there to support me. Except that would present a whole lot of problems in itself.

‘I’m afraid it will,’ Claire said, getting out. ‘Christ, I hope they haven’t got any bleeding guard dogs.’

So did I. But there wasn’t any baying, and, more to the point, no silent rush of feet, so we might be all right. I gestured to Claire to attack the sort of bell pull that might have summoned Mrs Fairfax when Jane Eyre turned up at Rochester’s place. I looked up. Plenty of attic room for concealing mad wives. Or Russian writers.

The outer door opened to reveal a woman in her late fifties, neatly dressed and well made-up.

‘Councillor Burton?’

‘Councillor Burton is expecting you,’ she said, stepping back to hold open for us a vestibule door with, I noticed, bevelled glass. It was hard not to gasp at the perfect proportions of the hall. Mike, with his love of history, would have known who’d designed it, who’d made the lovely occasional furniture standing around.

Coughing slightly – we must both have been gawping – the woman ushered us into what she called the drawing room. Again, it was like stepping into a National Trust room, with a couple of newspapers artlessly left on a coffee table to show the punters that the aristos really did live here. This room was full of chinoiserie. I was full of covetousness.

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