The Magic Cottage by James Herbert Read Free Book Online Page A

Monday. The agency needed them by that time so that they could be copied photographically, with copylines added, for presentation to their client later on in the week. Like a lot of artistic things, the pictures could either go beautifully right first off, or disastrously wrong: for Midge’s sake, I prayed this time it would be the former.
    Bunbury turned out to be one of those thriving market towns, with a lot more charm than the village of Cantrip: narrow streets, timbered houses and inns, overhanging gables and bow-windowed shops; just off the busy market square was a modern shopping mall, but even this managed to blend unobtrusively with the older buildings around it. There was a healthy bustle to the place that revived us after our early-morning rise and long journey. We found the offices of Ogborn, Puckridge and Quenby situated in a secluded, cobble-stoned cul-de-sac, the terraced buildings of ageing red brick with shoulder-height railings guarding the basement areas and a flight of steps leading up to each front door. The interior of O, P and Q was somewhat austere in comparison; functional without frills, dignified yet characterless. There were not many frills about Mr Ogborn either, although he certainly had olde-worlde dignity and a character that was not so far removed from Dickens. Putting an age on him wasn’t easy, but anywhere between sixty and eighty would have been close.
    He was quiet-mannered, yet crisp, his back a little crooked, his frame thin. Gold-rimmed spectacles rested on an unashamedly prominent nose, and his eyes, with their long, almost hooded lids, were of the palest grey I’d ever seen. But they were not unkind eyes.
    He offered me a long, bony hand and when I shook it I was surprised by the firmness of its grip. He held Midge’s a shade longer than necessary, I thought, and scrutinized her with an interest he hadn’t shown me. Maybe you’re never too old. We had been shown into his office by a secretary whose age could not have been too far off his own, and who treated him with a quiet reverence that might be due to a cardinal or television newscaster, and as she left, softly closing the door behind her, Ogborn offered two chairs opposite his leather-topped desk. Midge and I sat.
    ‘It was extremely good of you both to come all this way,’ he began in a voice that was as dry and brittle as were probably his old bones. ‘Mr Bickleshift informed me of your interest in Gramarye and I thought it might be appropriate for us to meet. I take it you are genuinely interested in the property?’
    Midge’s response was very swift. ‘We’d love to buy the cottage.’
    I shifted in my seat and nodded when the solicitor eyed me.
    ‘But the financial requirements appear to be some problem to you.’
    This time I was swifter than Midge. ‘The place is going to need quite a bit of renovation. There’s a great, gaping crack—’
    ‘Yes, I understand that the cottage has deteriorated considerably over recent months,’ he interrupted. ‘As executor of Flora Chaldean’s estate I have the authority to consider any reasonable bid, and it’s my opinion that the sooner Gramarye is occupied, the better for its general condition.’
    ‘Well, it’ll take a tidy sum to prevent further deterioration, Mr Ogborn,’ I pointed out to him.
    ‘Quite so. Money and good will.’
    Good will?
    He smiled at my mute surprise. ‘It’s my belief that homes live and breathe through the people who reside in them, Mr Stringer.’
    I wasn’t going to argue the point, not when negotiations were still at a ‘delicate’ stage. Midge, however, appeared eager to agree.
    ‘That’s what Gramarye needs so much right now, Mr Ogborn – life inside its walls.’
    I didn’t detect any embarrassment whatsoever in the solicitor’s steady gaze, but I quickly added, ‘All unoccupied houses become like mausoleums eventually, don’t they? Stale and decrepit. Just a good airing does them a lot of good. Y’know,