Free The Doll’s House by Evelyn Anthony

how she held on to his arm and shivered.
    â€˜I hate graveyards,’ she’d said suddenly. ‘I’m cold, darling … Let’s go.’ She was so soon to lie there herself.
    The deal was done. The contracts had been exchanged and the Doll’s House Manor Hotel now belonged to a consortium based in Switzerland. There’d been some publicity about the sale in the Sunday newspapers. Harry had welcomed the discreet publicity. He knew country people well enough to expect rumours and gossip to circulate for a time about the new owners. But it wouldn’t last long.
    There was no talk of planning permission for a golf course or anything that might lead to local opposition. It was all very quiet and dignified.
    Armed with his list of associates, Oakham had met his Libyan contact on the river boat plying to the Tower of London one evening after he got back from Geneva.
    He hadn’t queried anything when he saw the names. The banker was very experienced on covering deposits abroad so that they couldn’t be traced. He believed in legitimacy up front.
    The sum needed to improve and equip the hotel for its special purpose would come to Oakham through a firm of reputable London accountants who thought they were working for the Swiss consortium in Basle.
    Oakham was the middleman. The bills were submitted to the accountants and settled by them. Not one penny would slip into anyone’s pocket en route . Harry was determined about that. You didn’t cheat men like the banker’s boss, and live to enjoy it.
    Harry went up to the bar to pay his bill. The landlord glanced at him with sly curiosity. He wasn’t a tourist. He could have been anything in his shabby tweed jacket and twill trousers.
    â€˜That’ll be two fifty please, sir. You visiting these parts?’
    It made Harry smile. Nosey bastards, Suffolk people. But not too keen to talk about themselves.
    He decided to play along for mischief’s sake. ‘I’m going to Doll’s House Manor. It’s not far from here, is it?’
    â€˜About ten mile, I’d say, sir. Just been sold to some foreigners, I hear. Nice place. You staying long?’
    â€˜I hope so,’ Harry smiled pleasantly at him and scooped up his change. ‘I’m the new manager. Good afternoon.’
    He drove out on to the main Ipswich road; there wasn’t much traffic. He turned down a side road. The air smelt sweet of fresh grass and hedgerows. The sign loomed up ahead of him. Doll’s House Manor Hotel. It was Barrington Hall when the Lisle family lived there. The change of name signified its change of status. Because of the remarkable doll’s house itself.
    It was a long drive, with a fine avenue of beech trees leading up to the red-brick mansion. The sun shone and the colour glowed. Rose-red Tudor brickwork with the dark diapering on the façade. He’d come to the Lisle children’s parties. So long ago.
    He drove up to the sweep of gravel in front and stopped the car. On his first inspection the gardens had shown signs of creeping neglect, the woodwork needed painting, a crack inched up one of the main walls in the south wing. Times were hard and the hotel was losing money. The owners had been trying to sell it for over a year without success. The dramatic drop in price came at the right time for Harry Oakham. It was a bargain. The Colonel in his desert palace had made a good investment. Not that he cared about a financial return. The gardens were trim, the woodwork gleamed with fresh paint, signs of exterior neglect had been put right. He hadn’t spared the money either. A house like that deserved to be treated properly. He liked the idea that he was supporting a vanishing social phenomenon with the Colonel’s money. It amused him.
    A young man in blue porter’s livery came running down the steps and opened the car door for him. Harry got out.
    â€˜Are you staying, sir?’
    â€˜Yes. Bring in my