‘So – why exactly are you here?’ Simmy blurted. ‘Just to make Christopher feel bad about forgetting his promise?’
‘Do you feel bad, mate?’ the man asked.
‘A bit,’ Christopher admitted. ‘If it’s true that I lost you the house, then I definitely am sorry. But what can I do now? It’s too late to put it right.’
‘You could maybe give me a hand with my Uncle Richmond,’ same the startling reply. ‘Because the way things are, he’s giving us all a lot of grief.’
‘Good Lord!’ snapped Simmy. ‘This is getting ridiculous.’
Yet again, Christopher seemed intent on defending the visitor. ‘Can we leave that for another time?’ he asked. ‘Maybe you and I can talk it over together. It’s getting a bit late now.’
‘No need,’ said Fabian. ‘Have you got a bit of paper?’
Christopher produced a sheet torn from a pad kept beside the phone.
Fabian wrote, in small angular script. ‘Here. This is his name. He’s got a farm, but I don’t remember what it’s called. West of here somewhere. If you could help persuade him to get in touch, that’d be doing us a big favour.’
‘Us?’
‘My cousins – his sons. He’s cut himself off from all of us.’
Simmy took the piece of paper and stood over Fabian until he got the message. ‘Well, I’ll be off then,’ he said reluctantly.
‘Just one more question,’ said Christopher. ‘Who did she leave the house to, if it wasn’t anyone in the family?’
‘Oh – didn’t I say? It was my old pal Josephine.’
Chapter Four
After that, there was no getting rid of the man for another hour. Christopher took over from Simmy in the conversation, while she went to make more coffee. The two men had somehow shifted into the living room, and Robin was seriously overdue for his bedtime routine, but Simmy stayed to listen to the rambling family anecdotes that Fabian seemed intent on sharing. He told them about the original family house in Birmingham that was utterly destroyed in 1940 by a German bomb. With it went all the Victorian, Edwardian and art deco possessions. ‘Porcelain, pictures, fancy carpets. Not to mention family photographs, letters, diaries. A houseful of precious stuff.’
Christopher gave a soft moan. ‘Tragic,’ he mumbled.
‘Right. But the family all survived and couldn’t wait to get cracking on starting all over again. Even Hilda, who was barely more than a child at the time. She never cared so much for antiques as such, but she was passionate about old papers. Anything you auctioneers might call “memorabilia”. She bought rare letters and diaries, the oldest books she could find, early photos. All fairly bonkers, in that she didn’t care who the things came from. She just seemed to have this compulsion.’
‘So when did she buy the house that now belongs to my colleague?’ asked Christopher, who persistently tried to turn the conversation back to Josephine.
‘Twenty, twenty-five years ago, maybe. Why does that matter?’
‘Just trying to get the whole picture.’ He frowned. ‘Which still is nothing like clear, I’m sorry to say. One minute we’re in 1940 and the next you’re wanting me to smooth things down between you and your uncle. Maybe I should just ask Josephine to explain it all.’
Fabian mumbled a response that sounded like, ‘Do what you want,’ and then seemed to slump into a doze.
‘God, Chris, he’s fainting,’ Simmy protested. ‘He should have gone home ages ago. It’s practically dark. Are you allowed to use one of those scooters at night?’
‘I’m going to have to drive him – but there’s no way I can get that thing in the car. Maybe he can come back for it tomorrow, on the bus or something.’
‘No, no,’ Fabian breathed. ‘I’ll be all right. I’ll go now. Thanks for the coffee and everything. I’ve put my address here, see. With Richmond’s name. Just hope that battery holds out.’
Simmy was handsomely excused from further worry by Robin suddenly waking and noticing that his supper was late. Christopher was forced to let Fabian go, having watched him start his vehicle and chug determinedly towards the main road. He went back indoors and followed Simmy upstairs.
‘They make those things much sturdier these days,’ he said, obviously trying to reassure himself. ‘And it’s not really dark once you’re out there.’
‘Has it got lights?’
‘I suspect not.’
‘He’ll be killed,’ she said fatalistically.
After he’d gone and Robin was despatched for the night, Simmy and Christopher still had only one topic of conversation. Fabian had left countless intriguing questions dangling for them to pore over. ‘How old did you say he’d be now?’ Simmy asked.
‘Pushing sixty, wouldn’t you think? It’s hard to be sure. He seemed somewhere in his forties in Africa.’
‘He’s awfully pathetic and I know I should feel sorry for him, but I really don’t like him. He’s creepy and I’d never trust him.’ She clung to her original impression that the man was not to be encouraged. She doubted his honesty and suspected he could easily become an incubus. She was also unsure of his mental competence. His rambling explanation of his family troubles had never reached a clear conclusion. There was obviously a lot more he could have told them. No definite request had been made, on which Christopher could work, even if he wanted to. Find Uncle Richmond was not enough on its own – not by a long way.
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I wonder. He’s pushed in here, dumped all that family rubbish on us and now wants you to act as a family counsellor with this missing uncle. It’s outrageous when you think about it.’
‘All my own fault,’ sighed Christopher. ‘What if I did lose him that house? It sounds as if that would have turned his life around rather nicely.’
‘He never said where it is. Did you notice?’
‘It’s here somewhere. Ullswater. I remember that much, although technically there’s no such place as Ullswater – it’s just a lake. It’s got to be
