Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

“With all respect to Mrs. Pearce,” George Hardy interrupted him, clearing his throat and taking a sip of ale, “I’ll believe it when I see it. Mr. Winspeare’s already splashed out more money than’s good for him on that great car of his.”

“True. But that might mean he’s got a lot to splash.”

“Not to mention his house parties with that French champagne.” George shook his head. “That type — money goes faster through their fingers than water.”

“Mrs. Pearce seemed pretty sure. It should do you a bit of good, George.”

George Hardy picked up the note of envy in his old friend’s voice. He couldn’t blame him. No one here in the village had any money to spare, and it was hard not to begrudge another man’s change of fortunes. No, in this home fit for heroes, no one could afford more than half a pint, nursed carefully all evening. Look at the men, hogging the feeble fire as they hunched over their dominoes and cribbage boards. Not that they were bad fellows. No, if the rebuilding came his way, he’d be proud to take a good half-dozen of them and set them to work. Not Frank, of course. What little the gas had left him for lungs wouldn’t cope with heaving bricks or mixing cement. And though he’d tried hard, Frank’d never made much of a fist of reading and writing. Poor devil, the most he’d get out of this new prosperity would be someone else standing rounds for everyone, like they used to do when the Old Squire had turned up trumps after a good win on those horses of his. Not that they’d come home very often. “Poor Sir Hubert,” he sighed aloud.

Tom snorted into his half. “Don’t you start feeling sorry for one of the gentry. Sir Hubert could have housed half the parish backstairs in that great pile of his, and never been troubled by bumping into one of us.”

“True. But to lose both your sons at the Front — you have to feel sorry for any man.”

“Happened to a lot, rich and poor.” There was no doubt with whom Tom’s sympathies lay.

“And then to lose that nevvy of his: The lad leads a charmed life all through the war and then he goes down with the influenza, just when Sir Hubert thought he was training him up nicely to take over the estate.”

“You’re right,” Tom conceded. “The old man seemed to give up then, didn’t he? He’d still ride round the village on that great bay of his, expecting the lads to tug their forelocks and the young maids to curtsey — but you could see his heart wasn’t in it.”

The two men sipped, but not deeply, shaking their heads sadly.

“Come on, George,” Tom said at last. “You’ll be all right. This new squire’ll turn things round. You’ll see if he won’t. I know he’s not really one of the Family, but he’s got money, no doubt of that, and you can’t deny we could do with a bit of it round here. It’s not just building work, and the lads you’ll need to take on. It’s all the below-stairs staff — they’ll need more than just Mr. Cobbold and Mrs. Pearce to run things — and decorators and gardeners and even a groundsman for the cricket pitch. You’ll soon be up to your old magic with the ball, George.”

“I’ll be too old,” George said doubtfully. “Like I was too old to fight for king and country.”

“You — too old to play cricket? No, never. It’ll be like old times again.” There was no jealousy in his voice now, just honest hope.

George nodded. He dug in his pocket and checked his few coins. Yes, there were just enough for another half all round. They raised their glasses. “To the new squire!”

As soon as he got home, George covered the big kitchen table with paper and his ruler and pencils, tiny in his hams of hands. For all Tom Withers had thought the Big House too much for one family, George knew that it wouldn’t be big enough for a man bent on entertaining his rich friends, as rumour said Mr. Winspeare meant to do. As Tom had said, Mr. Winspeare wasn’t one of the Family at all, just a rich nobody who’d made a mint out of the war and bought up the ailing estate. There’d always be some to cavil, wouldn’t there? But George wished the rumours weren’t quite so specific. He didn’t like the thought of working for a man who’d sent troops out to the trenches with cardboard, not leather, for the soles of their boots. The poor devils had been blown to pieces quick enough — it would have been better if they’d met their Maker with warm, dry feet.

He picked up his pencil again. He must concentrate. It wasn’t just for himself he was doing this, but for all the families in the village that would benefit. It’d be a real challenge, trying to add wings to the Georgian house that had never been much more than a family home. But he’d seen pictures of other houses transformed into real grand affairs without losing the original proportions. Symmetry, that was the answer. Decent, simple symmetry.