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His lawyer had done the groundwork and put everything in place. The purchase was a good investment, and it currently housed his grandfather while he was in the UK undergoing tests and treatment for a variety of complaints set off by his diabetes.
Nik hadn’t paid much attention to a lane, or the village, or the fact he had tenants. His admin dealt with that.
‘What are you doing consorting with the tenants? That’s not your problem, Deda. You’re supposed to be relaxing.’
‘Sybella comes to the house to keep me company and help me out with a few secretarial things.’
‘You have staff for that.’
‘I prefer Sybella. She is genuine.’
‘She sounds great,’ Nik said mildly enough, making a mental note to ask a few questions of the house staff. He didn’t want his grandfather’s kindly nature being taken advantage of.
‘We have a busload of children from all over the county once a month, up to thirty at a time, and Sybella is unflappable.’
‘Unflappable, good to know.’ Nik indicated he had what he needed. Then his head shot up. ‘Busloads of—what? Hang on, Deda, where is this?’
‘At the Hall. The children who come to see the house.’
Nik stopped finding this amusing. ‘Why are busloads of children coming to the house?’ But he already knew.
‘The Heritage Trust show them around,’ Deda said cheerfully.
The Heritage Trust. The local historic buildings preservation group, who had kept the Hall open to the public since the nineteen seventies.
His purchase a year ago had shut all commercial activities at the Hall down. There had been a picket at the end of the drive for a week in protest until he’d called in the police.
‘This is not what we agreed, Deda.’
‘I know what you’re about to say,’ his grandfather blustered, ‘but I changed my mind. Besides, no final decision was made.’
‘No, we talked about it when you moved in and we decided to leave the matter in my hands.’
‘And now it’s in Sybella’s,’ his grandfather said smugly.
Sybella.
Nik couldn’t help picturing one of the matronly women who had picketed the drive, in her husband’s oversized hunting jacket and wellington boots, face like the back of a shovel, shouting about British heritage and marching a troop of equally appalling kids through his grandfather’s home. When she wasn’t going through Deda’s papers and possibly siphoning his bank account.
This was not what he wanted to hear. He had a new pipe starting up in Archangelsk, which would keep him in the north for much of this year. Business was expanding and he needed to be on site.
But now he had a new problem: a white elephant of a property sitting up in the English Cotswolds he’d been ignoring for too long, currently housing his grandfather and apparently the local historical group.
Nik didn’t have time for this, but he knew he was going to have to make time.
‘And what does this Sybella have to do with the Heritage Trust when she’s not cooking and cleaning and herding children?’ he asked tightly.
His grandfather chuckled and delivered the coup de grâce. ‘She runs it.’
CHAPTER TWO
THE PRESIDENT OF the local branch of the Heritage Trust stood up, removed her glasses and announced somewhat dolefully to the committee members assembled that a legal document had been lodged this morning at the trust’s London office suspending any further activity of the trust in the Hall.
‘Does that mean we can’t use the empty gatehouse as a visitors’ centre?’ Mrs Merrywether wanted to know. ‘Because Sybella said we could.’
A dozen grey heads turned and Sybella found herself sinking a little lower in her chair, because she had indeed waved a letter around last month claiming they had the right.
But dodging responsibility wasn’t her way.
‘I can’t understand why this has happened,’ she told the meeting, feeling very guilty and responsible for the confusion that had gripped the room. ‘I’ll look into it and sort it out. I promise.’
Seated beside her Mr Williams, the retired local accountant, patted her arm. ‘We know you will, Sybella, we trust your judgement. You haven’t led us wrong once.’
