“Oh, I’m not worried,” she replied lazily. “At this point I really don’t think much more can go wrong. Let the chips fall where they may.”
Betty’s voice drowned them out. “Ready, ladies?” The women of Rowan Thorp’s wide and varied societies, institutes, and associations shouted and punched the air in a way that suggested they were more than ready. Maggie took a deep breath and followed Betty into the pub.
Gareth Gilbert was sitting in the far corner on one of the benches fitted against the wall, flanked by four archetypal heavies. He was so engrossed in his conversation that he didn’t notice the wall of women headed toward him until they had clustered around him and blocked out not only the light but all available exits. He was momentarily taken aback but recovered himself quickly, no doubt bolstered by the human mountains on either side of him.
“Ladies!” he said, opening his arms wide in an expression of friendly greeting. “How can I help you? Are you collecting for the church roof fund? Or is it orphans today?” His voice had a nasal quality to it, oily and smooth so that every word came out as a sneer.
Troy came over and placed five pints of ale on the table in front of the men.
“On the house,” he said and hurried back behind the bar to watch the show. The gift of free booze appeared to squash any thoughts the men may have had of imminent departure. Gilbert raised his glass to the women and took a swig.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere.” He gave a yellow-toothed grin.
Betty folded her arms and some of the women in the group shook their heads in disbelief and sympathy for his misguided ways.
“I knew your father,” Betty began.
“Good for you,” Gilbert countered. “Taught me everything I know about property; god rest his soul.”
“Didn’t teach you to read, though, did he?” piped up Harini. That got some titters.
Gilbert shifted in his seat, looking slightly discomforted for the first time but smiling through it. “Ladies, I don’t mean to be rude, but I am a busy man, so if there is something I can help you with, let’s get to it, shall we?”
“Your father knew how things stood in Rowan Thorp,” said Betty. “He had respect.”
Gilbert seemed to notice Maggie for the first time, and a kind of understanding dawned on his smug face.
“This is about Ms. North’s eviction,” he began, a smile fixed in place. “It isn’t nice to lose a business in the village. I get it. I do. Small communities disappear when the hearts of the high street die. But I’m on your side. The hotel that will replace the greengrocer’s is going to bring visitors and tourists to this charming corner of the weald, put you back on the map. Everyone benefits.”
“We don’t need to hear your sales pitch, Mr. Gilbert,” Betty cut in. “We’re just here to tell you, it’s not going to happen.”
Gilbert looked momentarily confounded but recovered himself quickly. “I’m afraid it’s not up for negotiation.”
“No, it isn’t,” agreed Betty. She turned and crooked her finger, and Maggie saw Saskia Brannigan push to the front of the little crowd, holding a large manila folder to her chest.
Saskia smoothed her hair down with one hand and then opened the folder at a page marked by a yellow sticky note. “You inherited the lease of the building currently rented by Maggie North,” she began.
“Guilty as charged.”
“The lease, Mr. Gilbert.”
“Yes.”
“Not the freehold.”
Gilbert took a contemplative swig of his pint and set the glass down. “Get to the point, please, madam. I’ve got places to be and I’m sure you ladies have flower arranging or crochet granny squares to attend to.”
Saskia straightened her back, and Maggie recognized the same steely glare as her daughter. A smile twitched at her lips. “As per the Rowan Thorp public records, Patience North purchased the historic land upon which Rowan Thorp is built in 1750. Over the next thirty years, she also purchased the freehold of several buildings on the estate, which have remained in the North name ever since.”
“This is all very interesting, madam, but it doesn’t affect me. I own the lease on the building, and I can sell it, with planning permission, to whosoever I choose.”
“I’m terribly sorry to burst your bubble, Mr. Gilbert, but that’s simply not true.”
Saskia looked back and smiled as Parminder Myers, librarian, came to stand beside her.
“Patience North was a savvy businesswoman,” Parminder began. “Women weren’t entitled to own land in their own right in those days, but her tenacity garnered support from a team of London solicitors sympathetic to her plight, and certain loopholes were exploited to her advantage. Upon purchasing the estate and the property freeholds, she had covenants written into the deeds, so tightly knotted that they could not be undone by even the most cunning legal mind. This was her way of securing the future for North women down the centuries.”
Sonja Moorhen had come to stand by Parminder and took up the story. “Though she remained unwed, she had three daughters. Her influence and high regard in the village as a good and fair landlord offered her protection against those who would have destroyed her for being an unmarried businesswoman.”
Gilbert put his hands up to stop Sonja. “I’m sorry, ladies, I realize you’re on some sort of ‘women’s lib’ trip here, but can you get to the point?”
Sonja looked about ready to poke Gilbert’s eyes out with the laminated corner of the folder, but Parminder rested a steadying hand on her shoulder.
“Mr. Gilbert,” Parminder said with a smile, “by law, as per the covenants placed on this land by Patience North, no North woman may be evicted from any property which bears the name North in the freehold.”
Maggie’s mouth dropped open, though not as wide as Gilbert’s.
“Nah!” He grinned, shaking his head. “You’re having me on. There’s no such thing.”
“Oh, but there is,” said Saskia, stepping forward to wave a copy of the original freehold agreement and the leasehold agreement signed by Reginald Gilbert—Gareth’s father—in 1955. Gilbert reached forward and snatched them out of Saskia’s hand. She merely smiled serenely and watched with an amused smirk on her lips as he scanned the two documents.
He ran one hand through his thinning hair, greasy at the roots and beginning to clump. “I take it this isn’t the only copy,” he said with a kind of faint hope in his voice, as though he could rip these papers up and make it all go away.
“Really, Mr. Gilbert, what do you take us for?” asked Saskia sweetly. “There are copies held with the North family’s solicitors, also in the library archives, the public village records, the historical society, and just as an extra precaution, in the Rowan Thorp Women’s Institute’s own files. We like to stay informed. You will also find the covenants clearly marked out in the land registry and title deeds.”