"Well, I might give the wife a little extra. Ten pounds would pay for the funeral—handsomely. These people love a ghoulish sort of feast, don't they? 'Buried him with ham'—what!"
"Ham? Er, yes . . . quite. Ham."
Doctor Dick looked his host up and down as if he saw some connection between him and the word he reiterated. He got to his feet.
He was out of the room, out of the little entrance-hall, out of the house—stalking like a long-legged bird down the garden and on to the road almost before Edith and Alec could reply to his swift farewell. He'd been so quick, so cumbered with hat, stick and a knobby untidy parcel, that he didn't even shake hands.
Alec threw himself down in his armchair by the fire, took up a brass toasting-fork and began to warm up the remaining scones. Edith watched him absentmindedly.
"Shut Pills up, didn't I?" he spoke with his mouth full of scone. "Nothing like getting down to brass tacks with these fellows. Driveling about spooks and Troon! Neat dodge for collecting for Dawlish's widow. Better do the thing handsomely, as we're strangers here. Living at that big house, we'll be obliged to play up a bit."
Edith continued her pursuit of abstract thought.
"Well?"
"Yes, dear."
She came out of her trance, sat forward inelegantly, a thin hand on either knee. Strong emotion did occasionally uncover the past.
"Alec, there's more in this than meets the eye. Mark my words, there's someone else after Troon. They want to turn us out, force us to sell. I dare say they've found how old and much more valuable the property is than they believed. Let 'em try!"
He wolfed the last scone, licked a buttery thumb, pulled out a large white linen handkerchief, polished his lips, arranged his mustache, hitched up his trousers at the knee and lighted a fresh pipe.
"Let 'em!" he echoed in profound sepulchral tones.
Six o'clock on a late November evening. Rain and a squalling wind from the east. A high tide slapping and hissing against the mile-long ancient sea-wall.
Jim Sanderson drove at his job in the cold drafty house with nervous hurry. A highly intelligent able workman was Jim, the best workman of the gang at Troon House.
Well over three hundred years the house was. Of late it had fallen into bad disrepair. Its landlord lived in Ireland and rented his fine old derelict to one careless tenant after another until roof and walls let in as much weather as they kept out.
The Liverpool agent loved the house. He had done his best, wrested small sums from its owner for patching here and patching there for forty odd years. But he and Troon could bluff no longer.
Would-be tenants kept on coming, for a genuine old Seagate house for sale was rare. Their verdict was unanimous. Damp! Rain drove in through deep cracks and faulty windows. Salt water used in the cement made ugly discolorations everywhere. Timbers were rotting. One roof had curvature of the spine. Toads and spiders had taken over ruined outbuildings and kitchens. Weeds, coarse grass, overgrown hedges and dumps of rubbish made a desert of the long garden at Troon's back.
At last, the agent put up enormous startling bills in each of Troon's front windows. And, suddenly, he sold the house.
The two Kinlochs saw it. They had
