Sarah.
“Ah. A copy? I don’t really think that’s possible. The potential buyer hasn’t seen it yet — it’s only just come in.”
“It would be so reassuring to the owner. Of course, you are aware that if Cauldwells were sole agent, I imagine the commission on a sale would be considerable.”
“Nevertheless …”
Sarah watched Anjii wrestling with the problem.
“Mrs FitzHenry would be most grateful.”“Very well. What the owner requests …” said Anjii, “the owner shall have.”
“I brought a mini drive.”
Sarah took a breath, her ruse working. In truth, she wasn’t at all interested in the 3D model. What she wanted — what she’d come to the office for — was Anjii’s network password.
The conversation about the survey had been just a ploy to force Anjii to open her laptop. Sarah was guessing that Anjii would have password protection set for each time the laptop was woken up.
And now she could see she’d been right.
“How are you enjoying Cherringham?” said Sarah, just as Anjii’s fingers began to touch the keys.
The words had the desired effect — to slow Anjii down, to make her pause.
“It’s very … quaint,” said Anjii, delivering the word as if it was obscene.
Sarah tracked the woman’s fingers on the keyboard … and got five out of the six characters for sure.
“But so welcoming too, don’t you think?” said Sarah brightly.
She opened Notes on her iPad and popped the password in so she wouldn’t forget it. Then she turned her attention back to the laptop.
Anjii opened the 3D software and showed her the model of Combe Castle. As a designer Sarah knew enough about the tech to ask questions which had Anjii grappling to find answers.
Which was very satisfying.
Sarah handed her the USB drive, Anjii copied the model across, and gave her the drive back.
“Thank you. It will be good to show this to the owners. Very reassuring.”
“I doubt they’ll understand the model.”
“Still — it shows that Cauldwells is state of the art, hmm? And I will be back with thoughts about next steps very soon.”
Then, gathering up her handbag from the sofa she said goodbye to Anjii — who seemed surprised that the meeting had rushed to its conclusion — and left the office.
As she turned the corner into the village square she passed Cecil Cauldwell on his way back to the office.
Early …
She’d been lucky.
Was she going to be lucky with the password too?
10. Long Memories
Jack pulled up in front of Pelham Grange next to a mud-splattered Toyota pickup loaded with hay bales, and turned the Sprite’s engine off.
The drive had taken him longer than expected.
Pelham Farm was marked on the map as being to the south of the FitzHenry estate but when Jack got there he discovered that the farm was just that: barns, stores, vehicles, livestock, milking rooms — but no actual farmhouse.
One of the farmhands had explained: the Pelham estate was split in two. One half — the working half — to the south of the FitzHenry’s, the other to the north.
And the farmhouse, where Arthur Pelham lived, was in the northern section.
So back on the road Jack had gone, stopping in a small roadside pub up on the ridge for lunch of shepherd’s pie and a glass of Coke.
Remembering how ten years ago when he’d toured here with Katherine, they’d not thought twice about having a pie and a pint of beer …
And then he’d driven another ten minutes until he’d spotted the sign to Pelham Grange and driven down the long drive which had brought him here.
He looked up at the farmhouse — big, modern, functional.
He rang the bell and waited.
The door opened and a man stood there, chewing away, a sandwich in one hand.
Arthur Pelham …
He was tall — six foot three maybe, thought Jack — and though he looked to be in his sixties, Jack felt sure he was all muscle under the jeans and Barbour jacket.
“Mr. Pelham?” said Jack.
The man shut the door behind him.
“That’s
“Ah. A copy? I don’t really think that’s possible. The potential buyer hasn’t seen it yet — it’s only just come in.”
“It would be so reassuring to the owner. Of course, you are aware that if Cauldwells were sole agent, I imagine the commission on a sale would be considerable.”
“Nevertheless …”
Sarah watched Anjii wrestling with the problem.
“Mrs FitzHenry would be most grateful.”“Very well. What the owner requests …” said Anjii, “the owner shall have.”
“I brought a mini drive.”
Sarah took a breath, her ruse working. In truth, she wasn’t at all interested in the 3D model. What she wanted — what she’d come to the office for — was Anjii’s network password.
The conversation about the survey had been just a ploy to force Anjii to open her laptop. Sarah was guessing that Anjii would have password protection set for each time the laptop was woken up.
And now she could see she’d been right.
“How are you enjoying Cherringham?” said Sarah, just as Anjii’s fingers began to touch the keys.
The words had the desired effect — to slow Anjii down, to make her pause.
“It’s very … quaint,” said Anjii, delivering the word as if it was obscene.
Sarah tracked the woman’s fingers on the keyboard … and got five out of the six characters for sure.
“But so welcoming too, don’t you think?” said Sarah brightly.
She opened Notes on her iPad and popped the password in so she wouldn’t forget it. Then she turned her attention back to the laptop.
Anjii opened the 3D software and showed her the model of Combe Castle. As a designer Sarah knew enough about the tech to ask questions which had Anjii grappling to find answers.
Which was very satisfying.
Sarah handed her the USB drive, Anjii copied the model across, and gave her the drive back.
“Thank you. It will be good to show this to the owners. Very reassuring.”
“I doubt they’ll understand the model.”
“Still — it shows that Cauldwells is state of the art, hmm? And I will be back with thoughts about next steps very soon.”
Then, gathering up her handbag from the sofa she said goodbye to Anjii — who seemed surprised that the meeting had rushed to its conclusion — and left the office.
As she turned the corner into the village square she passed Cecil Cauldwell on his way back to the office.
Early …
She’d been lucky.
Was she going to be lucky with the password too?
10. Long Memories
Jack pulled up in front of Pelham Grange next to a mud-splattered Toyota pickup loaded with hay bales, and turned the Sprite’s engine off.
The drive had taken him longer than expected.
Pelham Farm was marked on the map as being to the south of the FitzHenry estate but when Jack got there he discovered that the farm was just that: barns, stores, vehicles, livestock, milking rooms — but no actual farmhouse.
One of the farmhands had explained: the Pelham estate was split in two. One half — the working half — to the south of the FitzHenry’s, the other to the north.
And the farmhouse, where Arthur Pelham lived, was in the northern section.
So back on the road Jack had gone, stopping in a small roadside pub up on the ridge for lunch of shepherd’s pie and a glass of Coke.
Remembering how ten years ago when he’d toured here with Katherine, they’d not thought twice about having a pie and a pint of beer …
And then he’d driven another ten minutes until he’d spotted the sign to Pelham Grange and driven down the long drive which had brought him here.
He looked up at the farmhouse — big, modern, functional.
He rang the bell and waited.
The door opened and a man stood there, chewing away, a sandwich in one hand.
Arthur Pelham …
He was tall — six foot three maybe, thought Jack — and though he looked to be in his sixties, Jack felt sure he was all muscle under the jeans and Barbour jacket.
“Mr. Pelham?” said Jack.
The man shut the door behind him.
“That’s
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