Free A Hovering of Vultures by Robert Barnard Page A

multiplicity of activities. They were there to be slept in, and that was that: there were heavy blankets, coarse sheets, and rough bedside tables with books turned down on them: in Joshua’s bedroom the book was Dubliners , in Susannah’s a May Sinclair. There was a third bedroom even more sparsely furnished than the other two. That seemed right: the Sneddons were not people who had visitors. There was a bathroom, the plumbing of which, the visitors were informed on an information card, was a later addition, circa 1950. It was hoped to restore it to roughly what it had been in the Sneddons’ time. The lavatory was an addition too, formed from part of the spare bedroom, but there was no intention of restoring things to what they were. Charlie Peace, a real townee, shuddered to think what the arrangements were before it had been put in.
    From the window of Joshua Sneddon’s bedroom he saw the next tour group beginning to assemble at the gate by the road. He noticed that Randolph Sneddon was among them, and was shaking the odd hand—awkwardly enough, but at least showing willing. On the landing Lettie Farraday was ready to go downstairs, and he gave her his arm. She was, he noticed, unusually silent. At the bottom of the stairs Mrs Marsden was directing people towards the back door, and they thanked her with a smile. The door was in the kitchen area, latched, but with two new and heavy bolts fitted. It creaked, dramatically and convincingly. Outside they were suddenly transported to suburbia, finding a small but colourful garden, with flagged paths and a riot of Spring shrubs and bulbs making a brave show against the wuthering climate of Micklewike.
    â€œAll wrong,” whispered Lettie to Charlie. “She only had a few primroses out here.”
    The whisper—there were two other couples from the tour already in the garden—confirmed what Charlie had begun to suspect. When they had wandered through the paths and reached the little patch of lawn beyond the flowerbeds, he said:
    â€œYou’ve been keeping quiet about your connections with the Sneddons. Don’t you want it known?”
    â€œIt is known. It’ll be all around the village, since Milly Winkworth recognised me. And that rather over-enthusiastic student last night may well have told people, unless she has some idea of keeping me to herself. But I don’t want to be badgered by Gerald Suzman, don’t want to be made part of his set-up, at least not yet. I may decide to say something tomorrow, but it will be in my own time.”
    They wandered round to the front of the farm, where Gerald Suzman was once again holding court for the next tour. He was being cornered, however, by Gillian Parkin and the Scandinavian girl, who, having interests in common, had clearly teamed up.
    â€œI assure you a transcript is already being prepared,” he was saying, smiling ingratiatingly. “The new edition of The Barren Fields is already at the publishers, and we hope to have a full text of the first two novels ready for publication by the end of the year.”
    The Scandinavian woman’s boyfriend was standing a bit aside, and he raised his eyebrows at Charlie.
    â€œVi are a bit out of things here,” he said. “Textual problems in the Sneddon novels—not my scene!”
    He was a strong-boned man in his mid-forties, with the flesh of good living beginning to cling. He had a coarse fair beard, but the hair on his head was thin. He was looking with tolerance at the trio nearby: Gillian Parkin and her friend shoulder to shoulder, Gerald Suzman fending themoff—and the women knowing they were being fended off, but unable to do anything about it. Bent forward, eager, there was something in their stance of the beast of prey. But Gerald Suzman did not look like anybody’s prey.
    â€œI can’t say I’m much bothered by little changes in the texts,” agreed Charlie easily.
    â€œA bit difficult to