A Desirable Residence - By Madeleine Wickham Page 0,43

clients.’

‘Oh, er, no,’ said Marcus. ‘Of course not.’

‘I specifically asked you, Marcus, to help me out on this one, because I trusted your judgement.’ Leo leaned forward slightly and gazed into Marcus’s face. ‘I credited you, Marcus, with a certain vision. I hope you won’t disappoint me.’

And Marcus had felt confused, flattered and exhilarated all at once. Leo had chosen him. He’d spotted his potential; seen that the constraints of provincial estate agency were stifling him; realized that Marcus was a man who could face a challenge head-on.

That was now a few weeks ago. And since then, everything had gone, Marcus thought, swimmingly. He’d set up the usual procedures impeccably. In his filing cabinet at work he had a bland letter from Leo, informing him of the owner’s recent death and requesting a valuation for probate with a view to selling as soon as was convenient. The letter was addressed to Marcus at his work address, but Leo had actually sent it to him at home, to avoid the danger of anyone else at Witherstone’s seeing it and deciding to do the valuation themselves. It had been easy for Marcus to bring it into the office, slip it into a file and sit quickly down at his desk again before Suzy, his secretary, came in.

He’d debated for a while whether to tell Suzy where he was going that day; whether a mysterious absence would draw more comment than the words Panning Hall scribbled across the diary page. People were so nosy: his cousin Miles would be sure to want to know all about the valuation if he found out about it; might even suggest coming along to see the place.

So in the end, he’d written in the diary, himself, the carefully ambiguous phrase: Valuation – Panning. Panning was itself a large village with a number of good-sized properties. And, as everyone was all too aware, there was a great trend at the moment for people to request valuations without having any intention of selling. If anyone asked where he’d been, he could make up some appropriate story about a client who had confessed at the end of their meeting that she didn’t really want to sell. No one would bother to pursue it. And meanwhile, having a reference to Panning in the diary might be useful in the future. Just in case anyone ever suggested he hadn’t put this case through the usual channels or that he’d tried to keep it quiet. Heaven forbid.

Marcus was trying, as far as he could, to lull himself into a normal frame of mind for this valuation. He would be professional about it, he would follow his usual procedures; he would carefully note the features of the main house and the state of the outlying buildings; investigate the river frontage and areas of woodland. He would undertake the job conscientiously, without skipping bits or cutting corners or taking anything for granted.

Marcus’s hands tightened as he tied up his shoes; his breath quickened slightly. And then, at the end of the valuation, when he’d taken all factors into consideration, he would come up with an overall figure which would be, give or take the odd thousand, one million pounds short of what it should be.

Easy. A piece of cake. What was it his son Andrew always said? No sweat.

By five o’clock the next afternoon, Marcus was feeling very sweaty indeed. He had arrived at the manor house at ten, to find an elderly man in a navy blue anorak and wellingtons waiting outside in a Range Rover.

‘Thought you’d be along soon,’ he said, in a comfortable local voice. ‘I’m Albert, used to do work on the estate for Lady Ursula. Thought you might like someone to show you about.’

‘It’s quite all right,’ said Marcus in a cheerfully polite voice. ‘I wouldn’t like to trouble you.’

‘No trouble,’ replied Albert, grinning at Marcus. ‘I suggested it to Mr Francis last week, and he said you’d probably be glad of someone who knows the place.’

‘Did he indeed?’ said Marcus, feeling annoyed. Bloody Leo. Why did he have to say that?

‘Well then,’ he said, carefully modulating his voice to avoid suspicion. ‘I’d be glad of your help.’

As they walked around the main house, Albert kept up a continual flow of chatter.

‘Suppose they’ll be selling then?’ he said. ‘Those daughters?’

‘I believe so,’ said Marcus.

‘Drug addicts, both of ’em,’ added Albert, surprisingly. ‘Used to smoke those cigarettes in one of the stables. “Oh Albert,” they says. “Don’t tell Mother.” Don’t tell