‘This is a quarantined area,’ he said.
‘We’re exercising our right to travel in our own country,’ Margaret said, ‘before the Germans get here and put an end to it all.’
She found her card and handed it to the policeman.
‘Is there a problem?’
He read her card and I waited for the change.
‘Lady Margaret,’ he said, his face colouring.
‘I asked if there was a problem.’ She put some edge into her voice. She knew what she was doing, using her status as a weapon. A side of her I hadn’t seen before.
‘No ma’am,’ he said, studying every detail on the card as if the security of the whole country depended on it.
‘As Mr Cook said, I was hoping to get a slice of cake. Could you direct me to Schofield’s?’
He gave us our papers back.
‘Past the town hall, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you,’ Margaret said.
‘Keep your hand on your wallet when you’re in the street,’ he said, now our protector. ‘Whole place is under siege from pickpockets, down from London to help relieve the Tommies of their pay.’
‘A bit hard on the man, weren’t you?’ I said, as we walked away.
Margaret snorted. ‘That’s rich,’ she said. ‘He didn’t look at me once, just the little lady, and your way of getting him on your side was to ridicule me.’
Margaret had a way of putting things that made sense. I’d been a fool.
‘And when I bare my claws the tiniest bit I get a rebuke from you.’
I didn’t answer. Probably best.
38
The county records office was in the town hall, near the top of the high street. It faced the gatehouse to the ancient castle, the heart of the town.
I explained I was thinking of buying some property on the Forest, wanted to check some chains of ownership, and we were shown to a reading room. After a couple of minutes’ wait, an elderly man brought in an ancient map, hand-drawn on heavy cloth and lacquered with some kind of protective layer that turned the whole thing yellow. He laid it out on the table for us and handed me a clipboard with a slip of paper and a pencil.
‘Write down the number of the property you want the information for, and we’ll retrieve it from the archives,’ he said, with difficulty. He wheezed as he talked.
‘Gas?’ I asked.
He shook his head. Didn’t want a fuss.
‘Where do we find you?’ I asked.
‘I’m always here,’ he said, as he closed the door.
We pored over the map. I traced Palehouse Lane from the main road.Fordwas written in blue in elegant italics where the stream crossed the road. At the end of the lane, more italics, this time in capitals –WORKS.An inch back along the road, surrounded on all sides by pink contours, was the Leckies’ house. There was a short column of handwrittennumbers next to the house, and I copied them down.
I assumed they referred to historical transactions.
Margaret had the list from Gooch. She read out each address in turn. I found it on the map, and she copied the numbers onto the clipboard.
‘We need pins,’ I said, ‘so we can see the pattern.’
