Mere. The monks usually built where fishing was handy.’
‘No connection with Frenze Street?’
Bressingham shook his head. ‘I think we can forget the monks,’ he said. ‘I know that Harrisons is ages old, but my dealer’s nose says we’re off the track.’
‘Let’s get to the house, then. What do you know about it?’
‘Not very much,’ Bressingham admitted. ‘We have a Town Plan of 1742 which shows it having bigger grounds than it does now. They ran through to Thingoe Road in those days, mostly a plantation and some formal gardens. There’s a sketch in the library, circa 1750, showing the house with a backing of beeches and conifers.’
‘How did it get its name?’
‘No mention of that anywhere. As a matter of fact, Harrison isn’t an indigenous name in these parts. It doesn’t occur in the town rolls, feet of fines or church registers – though the latter aren’t much help. They only go back a couple of centuries.’
‘So?’
Bressingham shrugged. ‘It blew in from somewhere. Once upon a time there was a Harrison of Harrisons.’
‘He must have made an impression.’
‘It was perhaps just his being a foreigner. Cross is clannish enough today – the Lord knows what it was like then!’
Gently nodded. The solution was probable. Being a well-to-do ‘foreigner’ was enough to make a mark. And certainly (x) Harrison must have been well-to-do to buy the old place in its heyday. One could visualize it crisp and newly decorated with its screen of tall trees, its plentiful servants, who were no doubt housed in the amplitude of the lofts. And the formal gardens, requiring gardeners, and the carriage and horses with their quota . . . yes, he needed to have money, that mysterious foreigner with the name that had stuck.
He found Bressingham watching him quizzically.
‘Look . . . this is a bit of cheek on my part . . . I’ve the curiosity of the devil. Have you searched the house yet?’
‘Not a proper search.’
‘Well . . . if you want a ferret. I mean, this is just my line of country. I really do have a nose for it, and I know the local domestic architecture backwards. If there’s anything there, I’m sure to spot it.’
Gently shrugged. ‘If there’s anything there! The theory is that it grew some wings on the night when Peachment was pushed downstairs.’
‘But you don’t know that.’
‘It’s a fair guess.’
Bressingham’s magnified eyes stared eagerly.
‘Forgive me – but on present evidence, you can’t be sure there was anything in the first place. There are these two pieces, that’s all, the Edward angel and the medal. They may be part of a collection, or they may be a red herring.’
Gently chuckled. ‘Well?’
‘Well – we can do better than that. If we find a hiding place, at least we know there was something hidden to begin with.’
‘And we might deduce something from the cache.’
‘Exactly. You might find old Peachey’s prints. And some more of that odd wrapping-paper – perhaps even with coin-impressions on it.’
Gently grinned broadly at the chubby little man. ‘You’ve clearly missed your vocation,’ he said.
‘It’s cheek, I know, but when you stop to think—’
‘All right, I’m sold. When are you free?’
The snow had a blizzardy touch in it when Gently stepped out in the courtyard again. All day the weather had been slowly worsening and the temperature edging lower.
Tomorrow was December, and there was Christmas round the corner . . .
In town, the weather wouldn’t notice so much; here, it was bleak like the open fields.
Gently shoved his way into a newsagent’s for a copy of the paper Bressingham had shown him. A sulky-faced girl, who’d been cuddling a radiator, came forward reluctantly to serve him.
‘
Eastern Evening News
.’
‘They’re all gone.’
Didn’t his voice proclaim him a ‘foreigner’?
‘Give me a tin of Erinmore, then.’
She took his money without a word.
A little town, with winter closing
‘No connection with Frenze Street?’
Bressingham shook his head. ‘I think we can forget the monks,’ he said. ‘I know that Harrisons is ages old, but my dealer’s nose says we’re off the track.’
‘Let’s get to the house, then. What do you know about it?’
‘Not very much,’ Bressingham admitted. ‘We have a Town Plan of 1742 which shows it having bigger grounds than it does now. They ran through to Thingoe Road in those days, mostly a plantation and some formal gardens. There’s a sketch in the library, circa 1750, showing the house with a backing of beeches and conifers.’
‘How did it get its name?’
‘No mention of that anywhere. As a matter of fact, Harrison isn’t an indigenous name in these parts. It doesn’t occur in the town rolls, feet of fines or church registers – though the latter aren’t much help. They only go back a couple of centuries.’
‘So?’
Bressingham shrugged. ‘It blew in from somewhere. Once upon a time there was a Harrison of Harrisons.’
‘He must have made an impression.’
‘It was perhaps just his being a foreigner. Cross is clannish enough today – the Lord knows what it was like then!’
Gently nodded. The solution was probable. Being a well-to-do ‘foreigner’ was enough to make a mark. And certainly (x) Harrison must have been well-to-do to buy the old place in its heyday. One could visualize it crisp and newly decorated with its screen of tall trees, its plentiful servants, who were no doubt housed in the amplitude of the lofts. And the formal gardens, requiring gardeners, and the carriage and horses with their quota . . . yes, he needed to have money, that mysterious foreigner with the name that had stuck.
He found Bressingham watching him quizzically.
‘Look . . . this is a bit of cheek on my part . . . I’ve the curiosity of the devil. Have you searched the house yet?’
‘Not a proper search.’
‘Well . . . if you want a ferret. I mean, this is just my line of country. I really do have a nose for it, and I know the local domestic architecture backwards. If there’s anything there, I’m sure to spot it.’
Gently shrugged. ‘If there’s anything there! The theory is that it grew some wings on the night when Peachment was pushed downstairs.’
‘But you don’t know that.’
‘It’s a fair guess.’
Bressingham’s magnified eyes stared eagerly.
‘Forgive me – but on present evidence, you can’t be sure there was anything in the first place. There are these two pieces, that’s all, the Edward angel and the medal. They may be part of a collection, or they may be a red herring.’
Gently chuckled. ‘Well?’
‘Well – we can do better than that. If we find a hiding place, at least we know there was something hidden to begin with.’
‘And we might deduce something from the cache.’
‘Exactly. You might find old Peachey’s prints. And some more of that odd wrapping-paper – perhaps even with coin-impressions on it.’
Gently grinned broadly at the chubby little man. ‘You’ve clearly missed your vocation,’ he said.
‘It’s cheek, I know, but when you stop to think—’
‘All right, I’m sold. When are you free?’
The snow had a blizzardy touch in it when Gently stepped out in the courtyard again. All day the weather had been slowly worsening and the temperature edging lower.
Tomorrow was December, and there was Christmas round the corner . . .
In town, the weather wouldn’t notice so much; here, it was bleak like the open fields.
Gently shoved his way into a newsagent’s for a copy of the paper Bressingham had shown him. A sulky-faced girl, who’d been cuddling a radiator, came forward reluctantly to serve him.
‘
Eastern Evening News
.’
‘They’re all gone.’
Didn’t his voice proclaim him a ‘foreigner’?
‘Give me a tin of Erinmore, then.’
She took his money without a word.
A little town, with winter closing
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