‘The Cranleys aren’t random,’ said Gabe. ‘They’re relatives.’
‘Barely,’ said Will. ‘I heard Rory never even met them before he carked it. They’re total strangers.’
‘Yeah, well, whatever,’ said Gabe. ‘It wouldn’t have happened to me because I’m not a vacuous socialite with no sense of responsibility who’d let the whole estate go to hell in a handbasket before you could say “pass the cocaine”.’
Gabe and Will were sitting in the beer tent at the annual Fittlescombe village fete on what had blossomed into a blisteringly hot May morning. Always held on May Day and in Furlings’ sprawling lower meadow, this year’s fete had been given an added frisson of excitement thanks to the gossip surrounding Tatiana Flint-Hamilton’s disinheritance. The latest word was that Tatiana had decided to take Furlings’ new owners to court over it. Apparently she had some scheme brewing to have her father’s will declared invalid. Although nobody seemed clear quite how such a challenge might succeed. Rory Flint-Hamilton was old but quite sane when he died. And by all accounts the Cranleys were as surprised by the contents of his will as his daughter was, so they could hardly be said to have coerced him.
In any event, the case had split the village, and the entire Swell Valley, down the middle. There were some who approved of Rory’s decision to leave his ancient family estate in safer hands than those of his feckless, scandal-prone daughter. But many others felt aggrieved on Tatiana’s behalf. After all, it wasn’t as if all her Flint-Hamilton forefathers had been saints and angels, especially in their youth. Tati should be given a chance to grow up and prove herself. The fact that Rory’s appointed heirs, the Cranleys, were not only card-carrying nouves but, worse, Australian, only served to fan the flames of local ire.
Of course, no one had actually met Furlings’ new owners yet. The Cranleys were due to arrive next week. But that hadn’t stopped the rumour mill from going into overdrive. Mrs Worsley, Rory Flint-Hamilton’s old housekeeper, was the only person with first-hand information, having apparently Skyped with Brett Cranley and his wife on numerous occasions. On the basis of these conversations, the housekeeper pronounced her new employers ‘charming’ and ‘terribly down to earth’. Of course Fiona Worsley had more reason than most to support Rory’s Australian heirs over his daughter. Mrs Worsley had been there through the very worst excesses of Tati’s teenage years and had seen first hand just how spoiled, destructive and Machiavellian she could be. She was fond of Tatiana deep down, but the thought of working for her, not to mention sitting back and watching helplessly while she and her rich, druggie London friends turned Furlings into some sort of party-house, was more than the old woman could have borne.
On Mrs Worsley’s advice, Brett Cranley had already won over a few cynics by giving permission from Sydney for the village fete to go ahead as usual, and for the meadow to be used.
‘You see what I mean?’ Furlings’ housekeeper had purred. ‘He’s as nice as pie and generous with it.’
What Furlings’ new owner hadn’t anticipated was that his absence had left a window for his cousin Tatiana to swoop in unannounced and effectively take over proceedings. She’d even demanded that Mrs Worsley put her up in her old room at Furlings for the week of the fete.
‘I presume I’m welcome as a guest, at least? In my own bloody home,’ she fumed.
Once installed, Tati had begun the Herculean task of trying to win over the locals. Her challenge to her father’s will was based on the premise that Furlings had never really been Rory’s to leave. That there was an effective entailment, inferred from generations of local practice. It was a shaky case, to say the least, but it was all she had. In order for it to stand a snowball’s chance in hell of succeeding in court, she would need extensive local support. Hence, in Gabe Baxter’s view, her cynical ‘sudden interest’ in the village.
‘You have to admit, she’s done a good job running the fete committee,’ said Will Nutley, draining the dregs of his cider and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘This must be the best turnout we’ve had in a decade. Loads of celebs have shown up because of her.’
‘So?’
‘So it’s all money for the village, isn’t it? I saw Kate Moss earlier at the craft stall. And Seb Harwich said Hugh Grant was milling around somewhere.’
‘Probably complaining,’ said Gabe, downing the rest of his Merrydown in a single gulp. ‘He’s such a miserable git.’
Will grinned. ‘Sure you’re not just jealous because he’s getting all the female attention?’