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Guy Baggot Smith gave the combine trundling along the lane in front of him another ten second blast on the Bentleys powerful horn and hammered on the steering wheel in his frustration. Every bloody time he'd gone out in the last couple of weeks he'd ended up stuck behind a combine or a tractor or a herd of bloody cows, it was like living in the dark ages, still if Guy had his way there would be no more farming in the vale of bloody Bram.

    Guy was a successful business man, his current interests were centred around Tidton where he was building a retail development, and Farsham where he had already built an extensive industrial estate. He had just successfully let the last unit and was trying to decide what his next project should be. It seemed to him that the next logical step should be housing, not social housing or affordable housing or any of that rubbish, but detached executive style homes, maybe even gated communities like the ones he'd seen in America. He consulted the large map dominating the office wall. In between the dark blocky splodge that indicated Farsham in the east and the similar dark splodge in the west that indicated Tidton there was a large green splodge. He traced the small print with a finger ‘The vale of Bram'; it turned out to be an anachronistic backwater populated by inbreds and bumpkins. He made a few discreet enquires and found to his annoyance that almost all of it was owned by someone called Sir Richard Cunningham and that not so much as a square inch of it was for sale. Sir Richard was a gentleman farmer whatever that was.

    Guy had never been interested in the countryside with its mud, insects and inconvenient lack of mobile coverage, but even he had to admit that it had a lot going for it, it really was beautiful with lovely woods and meadows, small hills and picturesque buildings, and through it all wound the crystal clear trout haunted river Bram. With a little skill and a lot of bribery he could buy the land and use his dodgy contacts in the Tidton planning department in order to get planning permission, he would make a killing. Guy had parked the Bentley at the top of a small hill and had looked out at the view, he pressed a button and as the window wound down Guy's favourite smell, the heady scent of money wafted in.

The next step was to get a foot in the door so to speak. Bramford was the only village in the vale, apart from a handful of hamlets with only a few houses each. Guy remembered that he vaguely knew someone that actually lived in Bramford, what was his name? Jack something, Jack Thornton, yes that was it. Jack he remembered was a small time gambler; they had met at Guy's casino in Birmingham where Jack had bored the pants of him waffling on about his house in Bramford, Bramford manor to be exact. Guy made some enquiries and found out that Jack visited the casino on the last Friday of every month. Guy made an effort to reacquaint himself with Jack at the bar, after a few drinks Guy ‘arranged' it so that Jack began a winning streak, over the next couple of months Jack won nearly twenty thousand pounds, he kept returning like a wasp to a jam jar, with almost every hand  he upped the ante, he just couldn't lose. Guy let this state of affairs continue until he could see that Jack was well and truly hooked. He'd found that often a gambler enjoyed the act of gambling more than actually winning and Jack had crossed that dangerous threshold. When Jack suddenly began to lose Guy reassured him that this was only a temporary setback and that he would quickly recoup his losses, he encouraged him to be more and more reckless and then at last arranged a very generous line of credit with Jack's house Bramford manor as collateral, it was like taking candy from a baby. Guy had Jack evicted and would always treasure the look on Jack's face when he realised that Guy had betrayed him, it always made Guy smile when he thought of Jack's downfall.

    After what seemed a lifetime Guy arrived at the garish automated wrought iron gates that marked the drive up to the manor house that was now his home courtesy of Jack Thornton. The gates were complete with a genuine coat of arms which Guy had bought on eBay. As the gates ground slowly open he remembered seeing the rambling red brick carbuncle that was the manor for the first time. It had a multitude of building styles ranging from the rotten half timbered real Tudor wing to the nineteen thirties mock Tudor garage. His first impulse on seeing the decaying heap was to have a bulldozer from one of his sites come and flatten it and start again. He was informed that this was impossible as the house was listed and that he could do little or nothing to change its outward appearance. He had a surveyors report somewhere informing him that the house was infested with bats, death watch beetle and newts and that one of these creatures was devouring the house piecemeal and would have to be eradicated at great expense, but without referring back to the report he was damned if he could remember which.

    As he drove down the curved gravel drive he passed Jenkins his one armed gardener who waved as the Bentley wafted past, however the wave became an obscene gesture as the car passed behind an herbaceous border. Guy had questioned the wisdom of employing a one armed gardener, but he came highly recommended by Sir Richard.

    As he pulled his car into the courtyard at the rear of the house he saw a sight he was beginning to dread. A battered white transit bearing the legend Adrian Tinker plumber in faded paint stood near the back door. Guy had tried to use one of the smart efficient plumbers from one of his sites to try and get the manors plumbing in some sort of running order, but after only an hour the last one had jumped into his van saying that he needed to get some parts and had roared off and had not been seen since. Adrian, Bramfords only plumber was the only person who could get anything to work at all and that was because he practically lived here. Guy wondered why Adrian hadn't bought himself a new van; heaven knew Guy had paid him enough to buy a couple.

    Adrian said the manors plumbing was an education and ‘represented a fascinating journey through the history plumbing' he even claimed that parts of it may have been roman in origin, all Guy knew was that he could not have a shower without the temperature fluctuating wildly from stone cold to scalding hot in a five second cycle. Before Guy could scuttle inside Adrian emerged from his van with yet another invoice clutched in his hand and another dreadful joke on his lips.

Keyword: The Bramford wolf part 4

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