Page 10 of A Change of Location
After a surprisingly sunny, trouble-free tour of hamlets and houses, the weather—and Hannah’s outlook—abruptly changed. Not only because of gray skies and intermittent rainfall. This was the tenth anniversary of Chase’s sentencing.
Today her mind frequently darted back in time to that chilly April afternoon when she’d helped her grandfather stack his lobster traps. Without her uncle’s stream of jokes, the job had taken longer than usual. She remembered how the breeze rippled the water beyond the dock and the shimmer of the sunshine on the surface. The screeching gulls drowned the droning voice coming from the portable radio—until Grampa turned up the volume. A decade on, she could still hear the words with perfect, piercing clarity: Chase Ballard, convicted of manslaughter... a ten-year sentence... transferred from Cumberland County Jail in Portland to the Maine State Prison in Warren...”
He’d taken her fishing in his motorboat and helped her haul in her catch. Shown her the best places on the river to spot eagles and ospreys and herons. Supervised her 4-H projects when her parents didn’t have time. An only child, she’d felt so lucky to have big brother and uncle rolled into one. Someone to have fun with. Whose shoulder she could cry on—not that she often did.
She twisted the car radio’s volume button. As the final notes of an upbeat song faded, a pair of presenters began rehashing the latest developments in the widely publicized Sterling Scandal. Several days ago, darting into a bookshop in the Reading railway station, she’d noticed large boldface headlines on the tabloid newspapers and garish color photos of a member of Parliament and his glamorous lover, whose connection to an infamous crime family had recently been uncovered. Hannah hadn’t imagined that her opinion of the British press and its characteristic obsession with the private lives of public figures could sink any lower. Current events proved otherwise.
Her expectations for Stanwell House weren’t high, a judgment based on a few low-res images produced by her internet search, and doubts nagged her as she approached the final stop on her tour. Shooting interiors and exteriors at a private residence would be a hell of a lot trickier than at any of the sites recommended by the location agency.
During a phone conversation with her location finder—without naming Lord Milverston or his house—she puzzled over his motive for readily opening his property for inspection.
“Flat broke,” the woman declared. “Desperate to replace the lead roof, or get rid of the dry rot. I reckon his bank overdraft is giving him and his accountant seizures. Those huge places cost several fortunes to maintain. That’s why we’ve got such a large list on our books, and you’re so spoilt for choice.”
Hannah disliked being the beneficiary of someone else’s misery, although she was aware that an infusion of money from the film production would benefit the property owner.
“If he hasn’t opened his precious house to the public,” her contact went on, “he doesn’t want the common folk traipsing over his hallowed acres and marching into his great hall to mock or criticize the portraits of his noble and not very woke ancestors. You’re the lesser of several evils.”
“His estate’s proximity to Hartcliffe Studios is a significant plus.”
“The only one, is my guess. Internet access in the countryside can be unreliable. It’s impossible to manage a production without a strong signal, for all the reasons you know well enough. The house will contain all kinds of valuable objects to be guarded. Also, if its overall condition has deteriorated, there could be hazards. Outdated wiring. Flaking plaster. Creaking floorboards.”
Hannah considered these nightmarish warnings as the scudding clouds congealed into a dense darkness. Raindrops crashed onto her windshield, blotting out the landscape. She could just make out a single-track road, miraculously signed for Milverston Magna.
“England in springtime,” she sighed, rolling through the sodden green landscape.
Parallel hedgerows lined the narrow, twisting lane. It brought her to a paved road, at which point the satnav instructed her to make a right turn. She glanced at a Roman Catholic chapel and beyond it an Anglican church, both Victorian and neither old enough for her purposes. She passed a cluster of semi-detached houses, a school, and dilapidated factory buildings. This village was a dud.
Crossing the narrow bridge over the broad River Milver, she spied a lofty watermill and arching willow trees. Beyond these stood the enormous building that matched Martin Latimer’s description of the tithe barn, she arrived at a place where several roads converged. Keeping to the same one, she hoped for the best.
Despite being partly obscured by the torrent, her destination looked promising. The parish church, built of stone, sat near the triangular grassy common, bordered by shops on two sides. The Latimer Arms stood at the short end.
Her relief and sense of achievement were short-lived. On reaching the car park she checked the dashboard clock. “Damn,” she muttered. Fifteen minutes late for her appointment. No time to check in, or to stretch her legs, or do anything else. Frantically she searched her phone for the directions to Stanwell House.
She backtracked until she found a muddy single-track road, aware that pheasants and rabbits lurked in the fields on the other side of the hedges and could dart out at any moment. A house and farm buildings lay tucked into a fold between low, sheep-dotted hills.
Her next landmark appeared soon after, two stone pillars marking a paved drive that eventually brought her to a sizable stable yard. The surrounding outbuildings were in excellent repair, the gray-green paint on the wooden doors and the window trim looked fresh. Solar panels topped the longest rooftop, and she noted an electric vehicle charging station.
From her brief telephone contact with the estate manager, Hannah had envisioned a more mature Poppy Deane. The young woman braving the drizzle to greet her was as tall and slender as a fashion model, if not as ethereal.
“The way the rain was sheeting down earlier, I suspected you’d be delayed. I’ve got the kettle on already. You’ll be wanting tea.”
Hannah followed Poppy into a cream-painted office with attractive pine furniture and state-of-the-art computer and screen. Colorful Berber rugs brightened the sanded wooden floors. In a corner sat an empty dog basket and water dish. “Nice work space,” she commented when the estate manager returned from a back room carrying two mugs.
“Shared. Dennis, our numbers-cruncher, comes in three days a week. A local girl performs general office duties as needed.” Poppy’s brown ponytail brushed her shoulders as she turned to the large, framed map on the wall. Her forefinger slid across the glass. “Home Farm Lane brought you here. If you’d followed this bigger road bordering the green in Milverston, you’d have noticed the front gate and the fencing. It’s the main route to Newbridge.”
“What’s there?” She couldn’t recall what the marquess had said about it.
Poppy smiled. “An extremely old bridge, and a weir. The historic Market Hall and the Assembly Rooms, mixed in with some fairly unobtrusive modern construction. The railway station sits at the farthest end of the High Street. Which also has shops and offices, an Italian restaurant, a curry house, café, pubs, and a wine bar. A few years ago, Newbridge won a Tidy Town award. There’s also a busy roundabout on the outskirts with petrol stations, mega-stores, and a chain hotel.”
“I’ll be checking it out.”
Leading Hannah to the empty desk, she said, “You can use Dennis’s computer to look over Dad’s masterwork.” She pointed at a flash drive. “Our Milverston Estate archive, hundreds of photos and descriptive documents. All the dodgy pictures are mine. Feel free to trawl to your heart’s content. Take your time.”
Hannah scrolled through countless images of old-fashioned cottages and stone houses and farm buildings, each captioned with its date of construction, map reference, and current tenant. A lengthy document contained a property inventory with historical notes.
“This is fantastic,” she said, when she’d acquainted herself with the types of structures that could prove most useful.
“My father, the estate manager before me, was mad for record-keeping. There seems to be some sort of cataloguing infection round here. The late marquess had it, too. When Mart began turning out his uncle’s desk, every drawer had a printed list of its contents. An affront to his adventurous soul.”
