* * *
Once we were safely tootling up the near-empty M1, Muffin strapped into the passenger seat, I called Ezra using hands-free.
‘Sophie! We just got back from school. Hang on.’
I waited for a few seconds until his gaggle of children burst onto the line.
‘Hello, Auntie Sophie!’ they called, the two girls overlapping each other so it was hard to distinguish between them, while thirteen-year-old Ishmael sounded more like his father than his younger sisters.
‘Are you coming home?’ Aaliyah, who was nine, asked. While I rarely stayed longer than a few days at their farmhouse, and only two or three times a year, it served as my official address when I needed one and was therefore technically my home.
‘Not just yet. I’ll be back for Easter, though. Only a few weeks to go.’
I chatted for another minute or two before Ezra announced that there were snacks waiting in the kitchen, allowing us to talk in peace.
‘You survived the feuding family, then?’ he asked. ‘You aren’t calling from A&E?’
I spent a few minutes filling him in on the past weeks. Ezra was a silent partner in the business, the only person on earth apart from his wife, Naomi, who I trusted. His mother had been my parents’ solicitor since before I was born, and he’d taken over the role when I was a teenager. He’d been there when my world crumbled into ashes, given me a safe haven where I could slowly piece myself back together, and, as an added bonus, taught me everything I knew about inheritance law. I wasn’t Auntie Sophie by blood, but having changed dozens of nappies, spent endless hours cuddling babies in the rocking chair while we both cried, and witnessed their eldest daughter, JoJo’s, first steps, I was happy to accept the title.
I’d been living with Ezra when the idea for my business began. A friend asked for advice after her mum died, which ended up with me staying for a couple of weeks while we sorted everything out. She then passed my number to a colleague who’d lost his wife. His sister happened to work in a retirement village, and so it went on.
Why did they ask me, a twenty-five-year-old ex-floristry apprentice?
Because I’d learned far too many unwelcome, yet horribly necessary, lessons about how to keep on living, carry on breathing, and slog through the mountains of debris left behind when everyone you love the most has gone.
‘So, where next?’ Ezra asked, once he’d also filled me in on the latest goings-on at the farmhouse.
‘That’s partly why I was calling.’
‘Okay, but if this is going to require a long discussion, we might be better off waiting until this evening. I need to clear up the snack-time carnage before Naomi gets home. If I don’t up my game, she’s going to make me go back to working full-time.’
‘No, it won’t take long. I’ve only got two options. A woman in Sheffield whose dad died suddenly. There’s ex-step-siblings circling and some complicated and not necessarily legal business ties with two other countries. Plus, the woman is severely allergic to dogs so I’d be in the motorhome, and there’s snow forecast for next week.’
‘If that’s genuinely an option, I can’t wait to hear the second.’
‘Option two is a place called Riverbend, on the edge of Sherwood Forest. It’s an Edwardian country house with a guest suite including the added luxury of a bath, central heating and a log fire. The client, Harriet Langford, has offered a daily rate that will set me up for the rest of the year. Meals and other expenses included. She’s even got a dog. Called Flapjack. Who would apparently love to have Muffin to stay.’
‘I don’t understand the dilemma here. I know you want to help people wherever you can, but this is also your life, and your livelihood. You can’t risk getting embroiled with something illegal.’ He paused to tell the kids to pick their coats up off the floor. ‘You haven’t mentioned who’s died at the fancy hall. Presumably this is the issue?’
A sign up ahead informed me that the next turning was for Sherwood Forest. I had half a mile to decide.
‘That’s the thing. There isn’t anyone.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Harriet Langford owns the whole lot. Why does a fifty-five-year-old woman want help clearing a house she’s still living in, and to tie up all her affairs, when she’s very much alive?’
‘Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?’
‘By moving in? That could be riskier than the first option.’
‘A grand, old house with miles of countryside for Muffin to explore, no troublesome family to deal with? Sophie, these past few clients have really taken their toll. I can hear how tired you are. Why not choose the easier, nicer option for once?’
Ten seconds later, we were heading off the motorway and into the forest.
* * *
The nearest village to Riverbend was Middlebeck, which appeared to consist of not much more than a central green surrounded by a few shops, a primary school and tiny church. I pulled over in the one spot that would comfortably accommodate the van and called Harriet Langford to arrange an introductory meeting. If I picked up any bad vibes, or she turned out to be a brazen weirdo, I could always back out before signing anything.
