Nortonstowe
The manor house of Nortonstowe is set in open parkland, high in the Cotswolds not far from the steep western scarp. The land around is fertile. When it was first proposed to turn the manor into ‘one of those Government places’ there was a considerable measure of opposition both locally and in newspapers throughout Gloucestershire. But the Government had its way, as it does in such matters. The ‘locals’ were somewhat mollified when they heard that the new ‘place’ was to be agricultural in orientation and that farmers could look to it for advice.
An extensive new estate was built in the grounds of Nortonstowe out of sight of the manor house about a mile and a half away. For the most part the new estate consisted of semi-detached dwellings to be used for the working staff, but there were also some separate houses for senior officials and supervisors.
Helen and Joe Stoddard lived in one of the semi-detached rows of whitewashed houses. Joe had got himself a job as one of the gardeners. Literally and metaphorically it suited him down to the ground. At the age of thirty-one it was work in which he had had almost thirty years’ experience, for he had learned from his father, a gardener before him, almost as soon as he could walk. It suited Joe because it kept him out of doors the year round. It suited him because in an era of form-filling and letter-writing there was no paperwork to be done, for, let it be said, Joe had difficulty both in reading and writing. His appreciation of seed catalogues was confined to a study of the pictures. But this was no disadvantage since all seeds were ordered by the head gardener.
In spite of a somewhat remarkable slowness of mind Joe was popular with his mates. No one ever found him out of countenance, he was never known to be ‘down in the dumps’. When he was puzzled, as he often was, a smile would spread slowly across an amiable face.
Joe’s control over the muscles of his powerful frame was as good as his control over his brain was poor. He played an excellent game of darts, although he left the business of scoring to others. At skittles he was the terror of the neighbourhood.
Helen Stoddard contrasted oddly with her husband: a slight pretty girl of twenty-eight, highly intelligent but uneducated. It was something of a mystery how Joe and Helen got on so well. Perhaps it was because Joe was so easy to manage. Or perhaps because their two small children seemed to have inherited the best of two worlds, the mother’s intelligence and the father’s toughness of physique.
But now Helen was angry with her Joe. Queer things were happening up at the big house. During the last fortnight hundreds of men had descended on the place. Old installations had been torn out to make way for new. A great tract of land had been cleared and strange wires were being erected all over it. It should have been easy for Joe to have discovered what it all meant, but Joe was so easily fobbed off with ridiculous explanations; that the wires were for training trees being the latest piece of nonsense.
Joe for his part couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. If it was very strange, as his wife said, well, most things were pretty odd anyway. “They’ must know all about it, and that was good enough for him.
Helen was angry because she had become dependent for information on her rival, Mrs Alsop. Peggy, Agnes Alsop’s daughter, was employed as a secretary at the manor, and Peggy was endowed with a curiosity not even surpassed by Helen or by her mother. In consequence a steady stream of information flowed into the Alsop household. Thanks in part to this bounty and in part to the skilful way in which she dispensed it, Agnes Alsop’s prestige ranked high among her neighbours.
To this must be added a gift for speculation. On the day that Peggy solved the mystery of the contents of the vast number of crates marked ‘Fragile: with the Greatest Care’ Mrs Alsop’s stock attained a new high.
“Full of wireless valves, that’s what they are,” she told her assembled court, “millions of ’em.”
“But what would they want millions of valves for?’ asked Helen.
“You might well ask,” answered Mrs Alsop. “And what would they want all those towers and wires in the five-hundred-acre field for? If you ask me, it’s a death-ray that they’re building.”
Subsequent events never shook her faith in this opinion.
Excitement in ‘Highlands Estate’ knew no bounds on the day ‘they’ arrived. Peggy became well nigh incoherent when she told her mother how a tall man with blue eyes had talked to important people from the Government ‘as if they were office boys, Mum’. “It’s a death-ray all right,” breathed Mrs Alsop in ecstasy.
One of the tit-bits fell to Helen Stoddard after all, perhaps the most important tit-bit from a practical point of view. The day after ‘they’ moved in, she started off early in the morning to cycle to the neighbouring village of Far Striding only to discover that a barrier had been thrown across the road. The barrier was guarded by a sergeant of police. Yes, she would be allowed this once to go on to the village, but in future no one could come into or out of Nortonstowe unless a pass was shown. Passes were going to be issued later that day. Everyone was to be photographed and the photos would be added to the passes later in the week. What about the children going to school? Well, he believed that a teacher was being sent up from Stroud so that it wouldn’t be necessary for the children to go into the village at all. He was sorry that he knew no more about it.
The death-ray theory gained further ground.
It was an odd commission. It came through Ann Halsey’s agent. Would she accept an engagement on 25 February to play two sonatas, one by Mozart, the other by Beethoven, at some place in Gloucestershire? The fee named was high, very high even for an able young pianist. There would also be a quartet. No other details were given, except that a car would be waiting at Bristol for the 2 p.m. Paddington train.
It wasn’t until Ann went along to the restaurant car for tea that she discovered the identity of the quartet, which turned out to be none other than Harry Hargreaves and his crowd.
“We’re doing some Schonberg,” said Harry. “Just to file their ear-drums down a bit. Who are they, by the way?”
“A country-house party, as far as I can gather.”
“Must be pretty wealthy, judging by the fees they’re willing to pay.”
The drive from Bristol to Nortonstowe passed very pleasantly. There was already a hint of an early spring. The chauffeur took them into the manor house, along corridors, opened a door. “The visitors from Bristol, sir!”
Kingsley had not been expecting anyone, but he recovered quickly. “Hello, Ann! Hello, Harry! How nice!”
“Nice to see you, Chris. But what is all this? How did you come to turn yourself into a country squire? Lord, more like, considering the magnificence of this place — rolling acres and that sort of thing.”
“Well, we’re on a special job for the Government. They apparently think we’re in need of some cultural uplift. Hence your presence,” explained Kingsley.
The evening was a great success, both the dinner and the concert, and it was with great regret that the musicians prepared to leave the following morning.
“Well, good-bye, Chris, and thanks for the pleasant stay,” said Ann.
“Your car ought to be waiting. It’s a pity that you should have to leave so soon.”
But there was neither chauffeur nor car waiting.
“No matter,” said Kingsley, “I’m sure that Dave Weichart will be willing to run you to Bristol in his own car, although it’ll be quite a squeeze with all those instruments.”
Yes, Dave Weichart would run them to Bristol, and it was quite a squeeze, but after about a quarter of an hour and much laughter they were under way.
Within half an hour the whole party was back again. The musicians were puzzled. Weichart was in a flaming rage. He marched the whole party into Kingsley’s office.
“What’s going on around here, Kingsley? When we got down to the guard’s place, he wouldn’t let us through the barrier. Said he had orders not to let anyone out.”
“We’ve all got engagements in London this evening,” said Ann, “and if we don’t get away soon we shall miss our train.”
“Well, if you can’t get out of the front gate, there are lots of other ways out,” answered Kingsley. “Let me make a few inquiries.”
He spent ten minutes at the phone while the others fretted and fumed. At length he put the receiver down.
“You’re not the only ones in a bit of a temper. People from the estate have been trying to get out into the
