The Courting Campaign

“This is an outrageously romantic place, Patrick.” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

“This is an outrageously romantic place, Patrick.”

“I know,” he said smugly. “Why do you think I brought you here?”

She looked at him and laughed. “A softening-up process?”

“Yes,” he said shamelessly. “I’m doing all I can to establish myself in your good books. And,” he added, his voice deepening, “I’m somehow managing to keep at arm’s length when you know perfectly well my instincts urge me otherwise. In the interests of truth I’m warning you—it’s all a plan of campaign.”

“Campaigns usually mean battles,” she said thoughtfully. “What, exactly, do you intend to gain?”

“Victory,” he said promptly, and took her in his arms and kissed her.

Catherine George was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading, which eventually fueled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the U.K. And instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings she began to write the first of her romances. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera, browse in antique shops and walk her dog.

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CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS the slight bow to the bench which caught Hester’s attention. The man was a stranger—tallish, slim, wearing the kind of baggy tweed jacket which could have been Armani or Oxfam. Probably the former, she thought, glad that the next case was the last of the session. The courtroom was hot. June sunshine blazed down from high windows onto a newly refurbished decor of cream-painted walls, crimson tip-up seats and flowered curtains—very different from the old, beautiful oak-panelling of pre-refit days. Now the entire courthouse was light and bright, but lacked its former gravitas. There was nothing here to intimidate the offenders brought up before the magistrates, most of whom, like Hester Conway, felt nostalgia for the courtroom in all its previous Victorian splendour.

So far the morning had provided the usual quota of summary offences involving traffic, excess alcohol and breaches of the peace, and the sentences had been straightforward. Hester was a relatively new magistrate, and at thirty-four the youngest in the district. In consequence she tended to dress down for her days in court. Despite the heat of the day her suit was unrelieved navy, and her dark hair was caught back in a severe twist with no escaping wisps. A large pair of horn-rimmed spectacles provided the finishing touch for the role she took very seriously. On her mettle to prove she possessed the intelligence, common sense, integrity and fair play required of her as a lay magistrate, she had, as usual, paid meticulous attention to every shred of evidence presented during the morning by both prosecution and defence. Today the three magistrates consisted of herself, Dr Tom Meadows—senior partner of the local medical practice—and Mr Philip Galbraith—retired headmaster of the local boys’ school, and President of the Bench.

Before the break most of the defendants had pleaded guilty and accepted whatever penalties, compensation and fines had been handed out. But the defendant about to be tried was pleading not guilty, which meant a lengthier, contested session to round off the morning.

Hester noted a reporter from the local paper, plus a sprinkling of spectators in the seats provided, including the man in the tweed jacket, who stood out from the rest. She registered thick fair hair, a deep-dyed suntan, and a clear-cut cast of feature which combined good looks with intelligence. Attractive, she thought, returning to her notes.

‘Who’s the fair man at the back?’ muttered Philip Galbraith, who always assumed Hester knew everyone in the entire neighbourhood.

‘No idea,’ she returned in an undertone. ‘Ask Dr Meadows.’

But the doctor was no wiser.

‘Dominic Anthony Barclay,’ announced the usher, and a tall youth entered the court and took a seat in the last of the three rows in the body of the court.

‘Stand up, Mr Barclay,’ said the President without emphasis, and the boy shot to his feet.

Hester eyed him with interest. During the morning all the defendants, male and female, had been dressed with a certain uniformity. Gaudy sweatshirts, jeans, sneakers and multiple earrings on both male and female had been the order of the day. Dominic Anthony Barclay, however, was in grey flannel trousers, crisp white shirt, striped tie and navy blazer. His fair hair—instead of hanging down his back, cropped cruelly short or shaved off entirely—was expertly cut, allowing one shining lock to flop slightly over his forehead.

He gave his name and address in educated, accentless tones, and despite obvious nerves firmly stated his plea of not guilty to the offence of driving while disqualified.

When asked what had happened on the night in question he informed the bench that his brother had been driving his car.

He was allowed to sit down while the prosecution informed the bench that the defendant had been recognised at the wheel of a car by a policewoman on the night of March twenty-fourth in Ashdown Lane, six months after having been disqualified from driving for two years. The witness for the prosecution was WPC Jean Harding, the policewoman in question.

WPC Harding, a bright-eyed young woman in her mid-twenties, made a good impression in the witness box. She repeated her oath as firmly as the defendant, but with an attractive hint of local burr in her voice.

In response to the prosecution’s enquiry she confirmed that she had been driving down Ashdown Lane on the night in question, just as it had been growing dark. There had been parked cars on both sides of the narrow road, and she had pulled in to a kerbside space to allow a current model Ford Escort to pass. She had recognised Dominic Barclay at the wheel. There had been another passenger in the defendant’s vehicle, but in the few seconds necessary for the car to travel past she’d been certain only of the identity of the driver.

The young policewoman gave her evidence calmly, consulting her notebook where necessary, and Hester scribbled a few notes of her own on her pad. The prosecution went on to ask the policewoman how she knew the defendant, and learned that WPC Harding had been the officer who had attended Ashdown House two weeks earlier to request the defendant to turn down the volume of music at a party given there to celebrate his birthday.

‘And on that occasion were you close enough to Mr Barclay to see his features clearly?’

‘Yes,’ continued the policewoman woodenly. ‘He kissed me on both cheeks and invited me to join the party. When I declined he reduced the volume as requested, whereupon my colleague and I left the premises.’

The prosecution sat down, and the defending solicitor rose to his feet to ask if, on the night of the party, Mr Barclay’s behaviour had been offensive.

‘No,’ said the policewoman.

‘But he did kiss you and invite you to the party. Was there a reason for this?’ asked the defendant’s solicitor gently.

The girl coloured. ‘He thought I was a strippergram,’ she said, after a pause, and the solicitor smiled indulgently as a ripple of amusement ran through the court.

‘Did this annoy you, Constable?’

‘No, sir.’

‘The incident did not prejudice you in any way when you believed you saw the defendant at the wheel of the Escort?’

The girl’s mouth tightened. ‘No, sir.’

‘And during your visit to Ashdown House did you have occasion to meet Dominic Barclay’s brother?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Thank you, Constable.’

Hester made more notes as the witness was excused. Young Dominic’s guilt seemed cut and dried. Then a hush fell over the court as the usher showed a young man to the witness box.

Giles Edward Barclay gave his name and address, took the oath and stated that he was the brother of the defendant. The statement was unnecessary. Right down to the last shining hair he was a mirror image of Dominic. The Barclay brothers were identical twins.

In unemphatic tones the boy informed the bench that he had been driving the car on the night in question, due to his brother’s disqualification.

Hester watched him closely as he gave his evidence. He looked nervous, in common with most youths of his age in these circumstances, but he answered the questions steadily enough, confirmed that he possessed a current driving licence and made a very good impression. Hester glanced at the man in the visitors’ seats. He was sitting perfectly still, his eyes on the boy in the witness stand, no vestige of expression on his face. Yet Hester was sure that behind the imperturbable exterior the man was tense. He looked extraordinarily young to possess teenage sons, but the resemblance was unmistakable. He was obviously their father.

She returned her attention to the proceedings. After only the shortest of consultations between the three magistrates the case was dismissed, and Dominic Barclay was told he was free to go—after a pointed reminder from the President that the term of disqualification from driving still had fifteen months to run.

‘There was no way that we could prove that he, or his brother, was lying,’ said Philip Galbraith later as they finished for the day. ‘But I’ve had years of experience with boys like Dominic Barclay, not to mention the pranks played by identical twins.’

‘You think the other boy lied?’ asked Hester, collecting her belongings.

‘If he did he was damn good,’ said Dr Meadows. ‘The Barclays are new in the district, by the way. Bought Ashdown House a few months ago. They’re shelling out a small fortune on doing it up.’

‘They haven’t shelled any out at Conway’s,’ said Hester with regret.

‘Shouldn’t think they’re straight yet. I went out to visit Mrs Barclay not long ago. The place was still a shambles.’ The doctor looked at his watch. ‘Must dash. Might get some lunch in before afternoon surgery.’

Hester made her farewells and went out into the sunshine. The small Cotswold town was full of visitors during the summer months, and on a sunny market day like this the streets were thronged. She exchanged her horn-rims for sunglasses, and walked briskly up the steep main thoroughfare. At the top of the hill she caught sight of the Barclay twins looking at sports equipment in a shop window, in company with their father. Relieved that the eye-catching Barclays were engrossed in the window display, Hester crossed the road to avoid an encounter likely to embarrass all of them—herself included.

She turned into the cobbled walkway where attractive shops clustered together near the medieval arches of the Chastlecombe market hall. At one end a glassvaulted arcade housed vendors of expensive clothes and leather goods as well as a small restaurant, aromatic with the scent of freshly-brewed coffee. But in the cobbled square itself the name CONWAY in italic capitals, was emblazoned above a large premises which sold porcelain and furniture. Some of the latter was the better type of mass-produced product, but the pieces displayed in the windows were made by local craftsmen and drew customers nationwide.

The shop was full of customers, and Hester hurried through to the cloakroom at the back to change the navy wool jacket for a cool white blouse. On her way back into the shop she saw David Conway at the desk in the office, involved in a heated telephone argument. He grinned at her, pointed an imaginary gun at the phone and went on arguing. Hester grinned back, blew him a kiss and hurried off to relieve her beleaguered staff.

After the sale of some hand-painted plates, a David Conway sofa table and a small, exquisite Kilim rug, Hester assented with relief when David emerged from his workshop to suggest a late snack in the bar of the King’s Arms.

While David went up to the bar Hester found a seat at a table near the window to watch the world go by, glad to relax for a while after the demands of the morning.

‘Busy in court today?’ asked David as he joined her.

‘Fairly.’ She accepted her tall glass of mineral water with gratitude, smiling at him, but the smile faded as she saw the father of the Barclay twins ushering his sons to a table. To her embarrassment he caught sight of her and bowed slightly, just as he’d done in court.

David raised an eyebrow. ‘Someone you know?’

‘Not really.’

The arrival of their sandwich lunches saved Hester from explanations, and the rest of the meal passed with discussion of the new commission David had been given that morning.

‘A twelve-foot dining table, a dozen chairs, two sideboards and a credence table,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘The argument was over a delivery date. The lady seemed to think I could knock them up in a couple of weeks. If, I told her, she wants the hand-crafted perfection of all David Conway pieces, it will take a little bit longer than that. Even,’ he added, ‘with the invaluable Peter doing the pedestrian bits.”

Hester grinned. ‘Is the customer happy about it?’

‘Happy, no. Resigned, yes.’

‘It’s a big order to do in a hurry. You’ve got a lot of work on already, David,’ said Hester anxiously.

‘Can’t afford to turn any away!’ He reached out a hand and took hers. ‘Don’t worry, love. I’m as healthy as a horse. Honestly. Ask Tom Meadows.’

‘I would, too,’ she said tartly, ‘but he’d never breach patient confidentiality.’ She withdrew her hand to finish her drink. ‘I’m still thirsty. I’d like some coffee. Want some?’

‘No, thanks.’ David rose to fetch it for her, but she waved him back.

‘Stay there and finish your lunch. I’ll get it.’

When Hester turned away from the bar with her coffee she realised the twins’ father was watching her.

‘A secret admirer?’ teased David, when she got back to the table.

‘He was in court this morning,’ said Hester, and changed the subject to the new furniture commission.

All the while David was expounding on the design he intended for the new order, his dark eyes bright with his usual, irresistible enthusiasm, Hester said the right things in the right places but couldn’t help noticing that the Barclay twins—who were in her direct line of vision on the other side of the bar—looked very subdued. Their father appeared to be giving them a lecture while they ate. Which wouldn’t do them any harm, she thought, feeling far more sympathy for the other youngsters who’d been brought up before the bench that morning, all of whom could have done with some of the parental guidance the Barclay twins were receiving.

Hester brought herself up sharply, and concentrated on David. In her year of sitting on the bench she’d made it a strict rule to put the cases from her mind once she left the court.

‘Come on, beautiful dreamer,’ said David, downing the last of his lager. ‘Time we got back to the grind.’

On their way out of the bar their route took them past the Barclays’ table, where both boys looked embarrassed when they saw Hester. She smiled a little, managing not to look in their father’s direction, and went out into the sunshine with David.

‘Nice-looking lads,’ he commented. ‘Visitors, I suppose.’

‘No. Their family moved into Ashdown House a few months ago.’

‘How do you know them?’ he asked curiously. ‘Or shouldn’t I ask?’

‘That’s right—you shouldn’t.’

He grinned, then whistled in surprise as they found the shop full of tourists admiring the porcelain display Hester had taken such pains to arrange. ‘Now you’re back from your bench I’ll get back to mine,’ he said hurriedly, and left her to see to the welcome influx of customers with her usual friendly attention.

Hester enjoyed her side of the business. David was the creative artist, but she was a skilled buyer, a born saleswoman, and in her element when it came to dealing with the public. Conway’s employed two women in their forties as assistants—Iris, who worked parttime, and Sheila, who worked full-time and did the accounts. The other employees were Mark, who was in his twenties and possessed of a physique which came in very useful for hauling furniture around and Peter, who assisted in the workshop. Mark also accompanied Ted Burrows, the driver, when deliveries were made in the smart van with CONWAY printed in gilt on a field of dark green.

Life for Hester Conway was busy and full, both professionally and socially. She went on regular visits to trade fairs all over the country, sometimes attended various functions with David—who was a Rotarian, and president of the local chamber of commerce—and when business was slacker in the post-Christmas lull holidays were spent in some warmer clime than the UK. She was also a member of the history society, the tennis club and contributed time to charity work, as well as attending regular additional periods of training for her unpaid function as a lay magistrate. Some days were so hectic that a few extra hours in the twenty-four would have been welcome.

As they shut up shop at five-thirty David reminded her they were due at a wine-tasting party at Chastlecombe House at eight-thirty, in aid of the local children’s home.

‘I’m off to see Father first,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘I’ll go straight there, have supper with him at The Priory and meet you at the wine-tasting later.’

‘Right. Give him my love and tell him I’ll see him on Sunday.’

Robert Conway, David’s father, had been the founder and driving force of the business, but twelve months earlier he’d decided to retire. He’d sold his house and acquired a room at The Priory, which was more like a five-star hotel than the luxurious retirement home it actually was. He still drove his car, visited Lords cricket ground once a year for a test match and went off on a cruise whenever the fancy took him. His family took turns in entertaining him at Sunday lunch every couple of weeks or so, and the arrangement worked well for everyone, since Robert still took a keen interest in the business and was only too glad to step in whenever Hester and David needed a break.

Hester lived on the outskirts of town. Pear Tree Cottage was small, but with a sizeable garden with high hedges which enclosed a riot of colour at this time of year. Hester ate a swift salad dinner then went through the nightly ritual of watering her latest batch of bedding plants, wishing she could just potter about in the garden all evening. She was tired after the double drain of a morning in court before the session in the shop. It was an effort to shower and change for the charity evening, where she would see the same familiar faces that she encountered at pretty much every function she attended in the close-knit community of Chastlecombe.

Chastlecombe House retained all the Cromwellian severity of its origins, both inside and out. Since Mrs Cowper, its owner, was very kind in lending it out for charity events Hester knew it well. By the time she arrived the great hall, with its long trestle-table and heavy, carved furniture, was crowded, but two faces new to the community stood out. One of them was already familiar from the morning session in court. The other was a rather haggard, attractive woman who, from the striking resemblance, could only be the Barclay twins’ mother. And even from a distance it was easy to see that Mrs Barclay was pregnant.

‘How charming you look in that shade, Hester,’ said Mrs Cowper, emerging from the crowd to greet her. ‘Used to call it dusky pink when I was a girl. You know everyone, dear, so do mingle. Though if you fancy making yourself useful we could use an extra hand to pass round the nibbles.’

Hester agreed with alacrity. She took up two beautiful silver dishes—George III, she noted with respect—and made for the nearest group with her canapés.

‘Hester!’ said Tim Galbraith, son of Philip. ‘You look ravishing.’

To prevent his usual kiss Hester thrust the silver dishes at him, grinning. ‘Hands off, Tim. Have one of these nibbles.’

‘I’d rather nibble delectable you, Hester,’ he assured her, relieved her of one of the dishes and accompanied her from group to group round the crowded room, flirting with her outrageously as they went.

Tim Galbraith ran the local garden centre. In sight of forty, he remained happily unmarried and was such a charmer that every single woman of eligible age chased him with fervour. To date he remained unattached but never neglected—since he wined and dined several of the ladies in question in strict rotation, never giving any of them reason to believe he cared for one more than another. Hester collected more supplies, then circulated, with Tim again in tandem. As they approached the Barclays Hester became gradually aware that the twins’ father was watching her with something like disapproval.

She thrust her dish at Tim. ‘Carry on for me, would you, please? I see David’s car coming down the drive.’

‘Only if you swear to return to me later.’ He grinned. ‘Or should I ask David’s permission?’

The evening was pleasant, as always, and Chastlecombe House was a dramatic backdrop for the occasion, but Hester took pains to avoid meeting the newcomers. Mr Barclay would be bound to mention that she was a Justice of the Peace, which would be embarrassing for his wife, and it was with some relief that she saw them take leave of Mrs Cowper quite early. Because Mrs Barclay was pregnant, of course, thought Hester. And not overly young to be expecting a baby, either. The twins were eighteen, which presumably would put their mother in the forty-something age group, which was common enough these days—but the lady had looked very weary.

By the time David took Hester home she felt weary, too, and utterly lacking in enthusiasm for the following day, which was Saturday, and, in summer-season Chastlecombe, likely to be busy.

She was proved right. After a satisfying busy morning, Hester sent Iris and Sheila off to an early lunch, volunteering to hold the fort with only Mark for company until they got back.

‘If necessary I’ll lure Peter from the workshop,’ she assured David, who wanted to go home for a while.

‘I need to do some shopping on the way,’ he told her. ‘But if you get mobbed, ring me.’

There was usually a lull at this time on a Saturday, while shoppers went off in search of lunch in the many and various eating places in the town. Hester had no problem in coping with a group of polite Japanese tourists who spent a gratifying amount of money. Afterwards there were a few people looking rather than buying, then for a time the shop was empty. Mark kept watch while Hester brushed her hair and reapplied lipstick, then popped his head round the office door and told her someone was asking for her. Hester was prey to mixed feelings when she found the Barclay twins’ father looking at dining room furniture.

He turned, smiling, as she went towards him. ‘Good afternoon. I wondered if you could help me?’

She returned the smile politely. ‘Of course, if I can.’

‘I’m in need of a gift for my sister—a belated house-warming present. And while I’m here I’d like a desk. For myself,’ he added. ‘I have it on the best authority that I won’t do better anywhere in the Cotswolds.’

‘How gratifying. May I ask who told you that?’

‘Mrs Cowper, at the wine-tasting last night. It was very good of her to invite us. And very informative,’ he added, smiling. ‘I learned a lot about the inhabitants of Chastlecombe.’

The day was hot and he was dressed for it, in pale chinos and a thin cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The shirt, Hester couldn’t help noticing, was the exact silvery green of the eyes which were so arresting in his lean, sun-browned face.