will be very helpful,’ said Mount. He pondered. ‘I would say that the farm, on valuation, will prove to be worth something like £125,000. That is not counting live and dead stock, of course.’
My head jerked up. ‘My God! So much?’
He gave me an amused look. ‘When a farm has been in the same family for as long as yours the cash value of the land tends to be ignored – it ceases to be regarded as invested capital. Land values have greatly appreciated in recent years, Jemmy; and you have 500 acres of prime land on red soil. At auction it would fetch not less than £250 an acre. When you add the stock, taking into account the admirable dairy herd Bob built up and the amount of modernization he has done, then I would say that the valuation for the purposes of probate will be not much less than £170,000.’
I accepted this incredible thing he was telling me. Mount was a country solicitor and knew as much about local farm values as any hard-eyed unillusioned farmer looking over his neighbour’s fields. He said, ‘If you sold it you would have a sizeable fortune, Jemmy.’
I shook my head. ‘I couldn’t sell it.’
He nodded understandingly. ‘No,’ he said reflectively. ‘I don’t suppose you could. It would be as though the Queen were to sell Buckingham Palace to a property developer. But what do you intend to do? Run it yourself?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said a little desperately. ‘I haven’t thought about it’
‘There’ll be time to think about it,’ he said consolingly. ‘One way would be to appoint a land agent. But your brother had a high opinion of Jack Edgecombe. You might do worse than make him farm manager; he can run the farming side, of which you know nothing – and you can operate the business side, of which he knows nothing. I don’t think it would be necessary to interrupt your present career.’
‘I’ll think about that,’ I said.
‘Tell me,’ said Mount. ‘You said you had a scheme for the farm. Could I ask what it is?’
I said, ‘The Government experimental farms have been using computers to work out maximum utilization of farm resources. Well, I have access to a computer and I put in all the data on Hay Tree Farm and programmed it to produce optimum profit.’
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 how 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 mere 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 we’ll 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 than 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.’
He phoned the order through to the kitchen, then spoke to Paula who went into the other bar. I took a pull of beer and was aware of Nigel coming to the counter again. ‘I know you don’t want to talk,’ he said. ‘But there’s something you ought to know.’
‘What is it?’
He hesitated. ‘Is it true that the dead man – the burglar – up at the farm was an American?’
‘There’s no certainty yet, but it’s a probability,’ I said.
He