The Vivero Letter

Mount smiled tolerantly. 'Your farm has been well worked for four hundred years. I doubt if you could find a better way of working it than the ways that are traditional in this area.'

I had come across this attitude many times before and I thought I knew haw to handle it. Traditional ways are good ways, but nobody would say they are perfect. If you take all the variables involved in even a smallish farm -- the right mix of arable and pasture, what animals to keep, how many animals and when to keep them, what feedstuffs to plant and what to buy -- if you take all those variables and put them in permutation and combination you come up with a matrix of several million choices.

'Traditional ways have evolved to a pretty high level and it isn't worth a farmer's while to improve them. He'd have to be a smart mathematician and it would probably take him fifty years of calculation. But a computer can do it in fifteen minutes. In the case of Hay Tree Farm the difference between the traditional good way and the best way is fifteen per cent net increase on profits.'

'You surprise me,' said Mount interestedly. 'We will have to talk about this -- but at a more appropriate time.'

It was a subject on which I could have talked for hours but, as he said, the time wasn't appropriate. I said, 'Did Bob ever talk to you about that tray?'

'Indeed he did,' said Mount. 'He brought it here, to this office, straight from the museum, and we discussed the insurance. It is a very valuable piece.'

'How valuable?'

'Now that is hard to say. We weighed it and, if the gold is pure, the intrinsic value will be about £2,500. But there is also the artistic value to take into account -- it's very beautiful -- and the antiquarian value. Do you know anything of its history?'

'Nothing,' I said. 'It's just been something that's been around the house ever since I can remember.'

'It will have, to be valued as part of the estate,' said Mount. 'Sotheby's might be best, I think.' He made another note. 'We will have to go very deeply into your brother's affairs. I hope there will be enough ... er ... loose money .. . available to pay the death duties. It would be a pity to have to sell off a part of the farm. Would you have any objection to selling the tray if it proved necessary?'

'No objection at all -- if it helps to keep the farm in one piece.' I thought I would probably sell it anyway; it had too much blood on it for my liking. It would be an uncomfortable thing to have around.

'Well, I don't think there's more we can do now,' said Mount. 'I'll set the legal processes in motion -- you can leave all that to me.' He stood up. 'I'm the executor of the estate. Jemmy; and executors have wide latitude, especially if they know the ins and outs of the law. You'll need ready money to run the farm -- to pay the men, for example -- and that can be drawn from the estate.' He grimaced. Technically speaking, I'm supposed to run the farm until probate, but I can appoint an expert to do it, and there's nothing to prevent me choosing you, so I think well let it go at that, shall we? Or would you rather I employed a land agent until probate?'

'Give me a couple of days,' I said. 'I want to think this over. For one thing, I'd like to talk to Jack Edgecombe.'

'Very well,' he said. 'But don't leave it much later man that.'

Before leaving Mount's office I telephoned the farm as I had promised Dave Goosan and was told that Detective-Superintendent Smith would be pleased if I would call at Totnes police station at three o'clock that afternoon. I said that I would and then went out into the street, feeling a little lost and wondering what to do next. Something was nagging at me and I couldn't pin it down, but suddenly I realized what it was.

I was hungry!

I looked at my watch and discovered it was nearly twelve o'clock. I had had no breakfast and only a very light snack the night before so it wasn't really surprising. Yet although I was hungry I didn't feel like facing a set meal, so I climbed into the car and headed towards the Cott where I could get a sandwich.

The saloon bar was almost empty with just an elderly man and woman sitting quietly in one corner. I went to the bar and said to Paula, 'I'll have a pint, please.'

She looked up. 'Oh, Mr. Wheale, I'm so sorry to hear of what happened.'

It hadn't taken long for the news to get around, but that was only to be expected in a small town like Totnes. 'Yes,' I said. 'It's a bad business.'

She turned away to draw the beer, and Nigel came in from the other bar. He said, 'Sorry to hear about your brother, Jemmy.'

'Yes,' I said. 'Look, Nigel; I just want a beer and some sandwiches. I don't feel much like talking just now.'

He nodded, and said, 'I'll serve you in a private room if you like.'

'No, that doesn't matter; I'll have it here.'