A Glimpse Through the Mist of Time

Chapter 1

I had never believed in the theory that something mystical called Fate would guide you through life’s pathway. I was a pragmatic, sometimes hard-headed businessman who had built a solid, successful concern buying, renting, and selling property. Where I was today had resulted from decisions based upon experience and the opportunity to buy at the right price and sell when circumstances offered a good profit. So why was I here? Looking over these acres of agricultural land that I had bought on little more than a whim, as I contemplated, I started to berate myself for ignoring the pragmatism that had guided me up to now, and my hopes wilted. Land like this was completely out of my business plan; it was doubtful that the local council would ever grant planning permission for the land; therefore, no developer would approach me begging to buy this parcel for far more than I had paid. Yet I was here, having bought it, and now it seems that unknowingly I have re-purchased the land my family owned almost one hundred years ago!

It started when Brian Morestead came to see me in my office in Bethnal Green. I knew him from deals we had worked on together sometime as partners in a project; sometimes as me being the seller and he the buyer. This time he came as the seller, hoping that I would take this land off him. “Daniel, I will be straight with you. I have overextended, and the Inland Revenue are getting heavy over last year’s return. I can sort that from reserves, but I need cash quite quickly for wages and rents. I have some land up in North Essex. I bought it quite cheaply as a long-term project. I have hopes that eventually the land will be zoned for housing. I am happy to pledge that property as collateral if you would advance me the capital I need for running expenses. What do you say?”

“I need some more detail, Brian. Show me this land you want to use as collateral.” He got out the land registry maps and the local authority maps and showed me where the parcel was. He then showed me the deeds to the property, proving that he did indeed own the land. The deeds only dated from nineteen forty-eight, which was unusual. He explained that the land had been owned by the Ministry of Defence for many years before that date, and a bureaucratic muddle so typical of civil servants resulted in the original deeds being disappearing. Not lost or mislaid, civil servants never lose anything; they file documents in the wrong place or do not have them to hand at this time. They never lose them.

The small estate of one hundred and ninety acres was in essence mixed, mainly pastoral land with grazing rights and some arable which Brian told me was rented to local farmers. The land was situated about fourteen miles east of Stansted airport. Stansted’s single runway is configured north-east to south-west, so the land I was looking at would not be directly under the flight path. It was also equidistant from Stansted and Colchester. Both Stansted and Colchester were within easy commuting distance from London. I had to agree with Brian. The land was ripe for development. It just needed the local authority to agree. With the pressure of the Government on local authorities for more housing, that may not be too far in the future. This could be a treasure, but one which would take a few years to unveil.

I also had a problem looming with the Inland Revenue. The last year had been good, and my accountant, Chad Martin, had advised me to tie up some capital in a long-term investment to set against my profits. This bit of land could be just what I needed. I typed a message on my keyboard; my desktop was linked with my secretary’s desktop computer. “Brian, I am sorry, but I cannot lend you the money.” His face fell, and I let him suffer for a few moments before I said, “However, I may be able to take this land for you if we can agree on a reasonable price.”

He shook his head. “No, Daniel. I couldn’t let it go.”

“OK. I’m sorry I cannot help you.”

“Now let’s not be too quick here, Daniel. I suppose I could let it go, but I would be looking in the region of two and a quarter million.” I pulled a face and waited for a moment. Sure enough, my screen showed up with agricultural land values for Essex for purchase and for letting. Tina, my secretary, was red-hot in more ways than one, and she had replied very quickly to my message. Two and a quarter was imagination gone wild. However, we had established that Brian would sell. All we needed was to settle the price.

“Given that it is a very long-term investment and there is doubt that it will ever be zoned for development, I couldn’t go over one and a half.”

Brian spluttered. “Wh ... What?”

“Oh, come on, Brian. I’m doing you a favour here. I am buying what could well turn out to be a pig in a poke.”

“Two, then.” He offered.

“One and three quarters, and I cannot go over that.”

“You’re a bastard, Daniel.” He reached over the desk and offered his hand. I shook it. Deal done.

“Tracey,” I shouted. The intercom on my desk bleeped. I pressed the key and asked, “Yes?”

“Don’t shout at me. We have the intercom; all you have to do is press the key and speak nicely. You know very well my name is Tina, not Tracey. Now, what do you want?”

“I want a deed of sale drawn up. I have all the details here.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I’m doing my nails.”

“You’re doing your what?”

“You heard. I am doing my nails.”

“Why do I employ you?”

“Because I wear short skirts and I have big tits.”

“You’re a tart.”

“And you are a dirty old man.”

“You’re fired!”

“No, I’m not. I was going to come in tomorrow wearing a really short skirt and a top I can fall out of if I’m not careful. So if you fire me, you’ll never get to see that.”

“OK. You’re not fired. You are a wonderful person the sight of whom cheers me up every day and fosters my dirty old man thoughts about you. I need this deed of sale done quickly, so could I plead for your help?”

“Oh, alright. Bring me the papers, and I’ll do it.”

Most people when buying a property will get their solicitor involved. People in this business do not. We don’t like paying a solicitor the huge sum he will want; usually a percentage of the purchase price; to do something quite simple. We buy and sell so often we can do all the necessary searches ourselves. Actually, Tina (yes, I do know her name; I call her Tracey to wind her up.) does all of that. She had worked as a conveyancing clerk for a solicitor before I lured her away. She is quick and accurate, and she can move around the internet and the Land Registry site as easily as she moves around her own home. She would make all the searches we needed, and it would be done in as little as three days, whereas a solicitor would take a month at least to convince his client that it was very difficult, thereby justifying the fees he would charge. As we had signed up with the Registry, we can download any documents we need. It took Tina twenty minutes to prepare the deed of sale and make two copies. Brian and I read through the agreement and signed. I gave him a cheque for the amount payable in seven days. That gave me the breathing space to get the Land Registry documents needed. Little things like their records matching the documents that Brian had shown me, and that he was actually the registered owner of the land.

I was sure that Chad Martin had mentioned that he lived somewhere in that area, so I decided that a visit to his office may offer more information. I put my head around the door to Tina’s office. “Tracey, I am going to see Chad for a moment, so you can get on with your nails.”

“Why did you get that intercom when you either shout at me or put your head round the door?”

“I like looking at you, and if you don’t come in tomorrow with the blouse you have promised, you are fired.”

“So if I came in topless?”

“You would get a big rise, and I am not just referring to my nether regions.”

“You are a disgusting old man!” She told me with a smile on her face.

“See you in a while, Tina.”

“Hah! The thought of my tits and your memory is restored.”

“Not only my memory.”

“Pervert.”

“Slut.” I left her to her own devices.

I realized shortly after Tina came to work for me that she enjoyed such banter. I also realized that it was just banter. If I had ever made a move on her, she would leave, and I would lose a very valuable employee. Tina had a nose for research; she knew where to go on the internet for information over and above that which the official sites would reveal. Our banter was a way of making our work enjoyable. I left the office and turned right to walk the couple of hundred yards to Chad’s office. When we first met, I was surprised that a very clever accountant, as Chad undoubtedly was, would work from this area. Bethnal Green not being the most salubrious area. When he explained that it helped with keeping a low profile and why he wanted a low profile, I understood. When I started my business, I couldn’t afford flashy offices, and even when the business became profitable, I eschewed the idea of a glamorous location as others such as Brian used. It was an overhead I could do without. Whilst I was not exactly an East End boy; I had grown up in Islington; I knew by rumour the names of some of Chad’s clients. He assured me that the majority of his clients were law-abiding and honest as I was. That description of my work was amusing in a way, as property speculators, as I described myself, were viewed in general as mendacious and manipulative, if not actually crooked. I considered myself straightforward. That I was honest and straightforward was down to my mother.

I knew my father only from hearsay. He vanished when I was four. From what I gathered, he was one of those men who always had great ideas for a get-rich-quick scheme. To that end, he would borrow money from wherever he could. Unfortunately, his schemes never worked, and the money he borrowed would not be repaid. When he exhausted the regular sources of funds, he approached other sources. His luck didn’t change, and when his irregular source of funds came pressing for repayment, he vanished. Years later, I asked my mother if she knew where he was. She shrugged her shoulders and gave me a wry smile. “Drive round the M25.” She suggested. “I am sure your dad will be performing a very important job in supporting the foundations of one of those bridges.” I was old enough to work out her meaning. It appeared that Mum discovered early that her husband would never offer her security. She had bought the house, and with the growing knowledge of her husband’s schemes, she remained adamant, despite my dad’s pleading, that she would never allow him to use her property as collateral for his borrowing. When Dad vanished, she changed her work from part-time to full-time. Our next-door neighbour became a sort of foster mother to me. She took me in when I came home from school and during school holidays. She was Auntie Flo to me. When I was fourteen, Mum let me have a key to our house so that I didn’t have to bother Auntie Flo, but Auntie Flo always had a meal for me if I turned up at her door. It was as if I had two mothers. Mum died when I was nineteen. Headaches that she had believed were from eye strain were eventually diagnosed as a brain tumour. It was too late to do anything.

It was my mum’s acumen that started me on my path. Her estate was the house and an insurance policy that seeded my business. I sold the house, just as Islington was becoming the nest for the chattering classes, those dilettantes who espouse socialist ideals, yet ensure that they are isolated from the effects of socialism. I didn’t have any political leanings at that time, but I could smell hypocrisy as well as the next man. The house brought me far more than I believed its value to be. My idea at first was to buy cheap property for rent. I started with four inexpensive terraced houses in Stepney. The rental from those bought me another two houses in the same area.

My tenants were mainly immigrants living on Jobseeker’s Allowance and Housing Benefit. I learned as I went. After a small explosion in one of the properties when the tenant tried to interfere with the meter, hoping to get his gas for free, I talked to the contractor who made good the damage. From that day on, none of my properties would have gas for cooking or heating. The cost of the frequent examinations by a licensed installer and the regulations imposed by the local and national government would be a constant drain on my income. All gas appliances were taken out and the meter disconnected, then the supply pipe was capped. Electricity was safer with pay-as-you-go meters. I tried to be straight with my tenants and asked them to be straight with me. Most were, but there was always the bad’un. If they didn’t pay the rent, I gave them two months to catch up the arrears. If they didn’t play ball, I descended on them, hopefully when they were out. Their belongings were bagged into black plastic bags, and those and their furniture were left on the pavement outside. The locks were changed. Those who were getting Housing Benefit had to sign a release that enabled me to get their benefit paid directly. I could not see any reason why I should subsidize their feckless way of life.

I built my empire up to some sixty houses, and the income was such that I looked for other ways to invest. That step came to me when a developer wanted to buy three of my adjacent properties. I was innocent at that time, and whilst getting a healthy profit on the properties, I learned later that I could have got a lot more. Without my properties, his development would stall. I learned that lesson. The trick was squeezing as much out of him as possible without pushing him into adjusting his plans.

One of my investments was commercial property. I owned the building where my office was, and the rent paid by the tenant of the shop below my office covered my business rates and the rates on my flat, which was the top floor of the building. I met Chad when we were in competition to buy the freehold of the building where he had his office. I withdrew from the bidding when he offered to take care of my accounts at a low rate. I got on well with him, and in time, we gradually became friends. I had met his wife, Lily, one day when she was there. Lily was a lovely woman after you looked past her disfigured face. It turned out that she was there that day as she had an appointment with the surgeon who had operated on her face.

I pressed the button on the entry system. “Chad, it’s Daniel.” I called when he asked who was calling. The buzzer sounded, and I pushed the door. The stairs began almost immediately, and I climbed them to the first floor. Chad had already opened the door.

“It’s good to see you, Daniel. Can I get you a coffee?”

“Thanks, Chad. I am here to pump you for information.” I followed him into the back room, where he put out mugs for coffee.

“Oh?” He filled the kettle.

“Yes. You live up in North Essex, don’t you?”

“Abbess Roding actually. What is your interest?”

“I have just bought a parcel of land up there. It’s just north of Braintree and fourteen miles from Stansted. It is an estate called Chetford.”

He shook his head. “I can’t recall such an estate. Where exactly is it?”

“It’s slightly south of Tilbury-juxta-Clare.”

Chad’s face cleared. “I think I know something about that. If I am right, it was a training ground for the Army. When the Colchester barracks were run down, the army let it go.” He paused and looked at me with a question on his face. “Why have you bought it?”

“I think it to be a long-term investment. I hope, with good reason, that I will eventually get planning consent for the land. Then I will be able to sell it to a developer for much more than I have paid.”

“Well, for the meantime, it will give you something to set against your profits for this year, but I doubt that you will ever get planning consent. The local councils are very strict. I wanted to build a small extension. They turned down the application. A neighbour of ours wanted to erect a conservatory, same story ... application refused.”

“Oh, great! Cheer me up, Chad.” I changed the topic. “How’s Lily?”

“She’s fine. She will be going into hospital soon for another operation. They will never get her back to how she was, though. We are hoping that they will manage to hide the burns sufficiently for make-up to cover the rest.”

“What happened, Chad?”

“Long story, Daniel. If Lily wants you to know, she will tell you one day.”

I finished my coffee and got up to leave. “Thanks for the coffee and information.”

“No problem. Next time, send Tina down; it’s much more fun looking at her than looking at you.”

“There are other accountants, you know.”

“Yeah. Try one and see how much more tax you have to pay.” We both grinned, and I left.

Chapter 2

Tina was doing her thing when I got back to the office. She had sent off email enquiries to all the relevant authorities and was now sitting at her desk perusing the land registry plan and comparing it with a large-scale map she had brought up on the computer.

“You know there’s a house on this property, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say a house; I thought it was described as remains.”

“Yes, that is there, but here.” She pointed. “There is a house, right down at the southeast of the land; on the Ordnance Survey map it appears to be a separate property, but according to the Land Registry plan it is part of the property.”

“Interesting. I wonder if that is rented. Brian didn’t say anything about it, though.”

“I’ll get on to the Braintree Council site and check if Council Tax is paid on that house.” She hesitated and then went on. “Mr. Morestead said that some of the land is rented, but his plan does not indicate where that land is.”

That stopped me in my tracks. “There must be some note, somewhere.”

Tina shook her head. “I have looked, Boss. I can’t find any reference.”

“Bring everything in. Maps, registry plan, and deeds. We’ll go through them together.” We did, scouring through all the documents and charts, yet found nothing to indicate what land was rented. The only clue came from one of the maps. It had been drawn up by a local estate agency, and I assumed they were the managing agency, collecting rents. Perhaps they could throw light on this apparent anomaly. I made a note to write to them, letting them know the change of ownership. I noted the river running through part of the property; it was called the Chet; not to be confused with the River Chet in Norfolk. Presumably, the estate took its name from the river.

Usually, when I bought property, I would go and inspect. Having done this for many properties, I knew now what to look for. I hadn’t planned on going to see this land, but now I was intrigued. I checked in my diary and scribbled a note for two days next week. I was intrigued by the lack of history of this property. Usually, with old property, the deeds will give you enough to go on, but as the Ministry of Defence had created replacement deeds, there wasn’t any history before nineteen forty-eight. I asked Tina if she could find anything online to fill in the gap.

“I’ve tried, but all I could get is that the army has owned the land since nineteen-fifteen. Before that, it is blank.” She seemed disappointed at her lack of success; she prided herself on discovering the answer to these little mysteries. She brightened up. “When you are there, try the library. They often have local histories which don’t get published nationally as they refer just to the local area. You may even find a local historian who will have stuff that hasn’t even been published.” She smiled cheekily. “Perhaps if you don’t have the time, I could come with you and do the research.”

“Oh! Do I have to book another room?”

“Yes, you do. I couldn’t be bothered with a dirty old man slobbering all over me. Ugh!” She shuddered.

“Thanks a lot, Tracey. Actually, it’s probably a good idea. You can go and do your research amidst those dusty old tomes, and I can go and wander about in the clean, fresh air.”

“You’re a cruel man as well as being a dirty old man with a particularly bad memory. It’s Tina.”

“Book two rooms at the Holiday Inn, make it for two nights. It may take you longer than you think.”

“And what will you be doing? May I ask?”

“After looking over the property, I shall be making a call on the planning department to see if I can get some idea of their forward planning.”

Tina giggled. “Presumably carrying brown envelopes stuffed with cash?”

“No, Tracey. I shall just give them your telephone number.”

“Now the dirty old man is trying to pimp me out. Do your talents ever end?”

“That, young lady, is something you will never discover.”

The drive up to Braintree did not take long. I took the M11 and turned off at Bishops Stortford onto the A120. I wasn’t a fast driver, but my Volkswagen Passat ate up the miles effortlessly. Tina asked me why I didn’t have a more luxurious car. My point was that London was so well served with public transport that having any car was superfluous. Buying and keeping a luxury car was pointless for the few trips I made outside of London. We checked into the Holiday Inn, and immediately I drove Tina to the library so she could start her research. I then drove north to find my property. It wasn’t easy as I had in mind that the property was near Tilbury-juxta-Clare. Actually, it was closer to a village called Great Yeldham. I had to ask in Great Yeldham for directions, and I was lucky to find a postal van. I waited until the driver returned to the van, and she gave me directions. My road map didn’t show the small lanes clearly enough. She pronounced the name as ‘Chefford’. I assumed that was the local idiom. I followed her instructions.

She had told me that I would go over the river, and the land on the right-hand side was the ‘Chefford’ estate. Having crossed the bridge, the lane started to rise gently. On my right, there was a hedgerow of Blackthorn, interspersed with an occasional tree. The Blackthorn was overgrown and needed layering. I was looking for the house that the map showed; however, the hedgerow blocked the view completely. The lane levelled out, and a turning to the right appeared. I turned into this lane, and after driving some thirty yards, I could see the house. It was obvious that the Blackthorn hedge had been planted deliberately to preserve privacy. There were the remains of a driveway; I could only turn in for a few yards as there was an iron gate blocking the drive. I stopped the car and got out. I could see the house quite clearly from my position.

At first sight, it didn’t seem to be Victorian. It didn’t have that look of an institution, gloomy and forbidding as most Victorian houses. Instead, it could have happily fitted in any town in the American Deep South. The feature that gave it that look was the veranda that extended across the front, broken only by the three steps that led up to the front door and around the southern side. The veranda was wide with a slated roof and a balustrade. It would have been an excellent place to sit on lazy afternoons or long, warm evenings. The windows had been boarded at one time, now remnants hung haphazardly, and the frames were missing, leaving blank openings in the fabric of the house. The door had also been boarded, but that boarding had been ripped away, all but a few planks, and the door itself was long gone. I imagined that itinerants and tramps had done that as they sought somewhere for shelter. Dressed as I was in a suit and black shoes, I decided not to investigate now. I was sure that inside the house, I would encounter nauseous odours and mess on the floors. That adventure was for another day.

Back in the car, I reversed out into the lane and continued further. I had not gone too far before another driveway to the right presented itself. The hedges along the land had grown thick and wildly, and the drive was little more than a suggestion that once there had been an entrance here. I stopped and got out. There was a vestige of a path through the hedge, and I ventured carefully for a few yards before being brought to a halt by iron gates. I was astonished as this was not just a gate; it was an ornate entrance that announced a great house. The pillars stood tall and were surmounted with globes; the gates were at least six feet tall, containing vertical bars. The tops were folded rails, highest at the hinge edge, sloping down to a small curlicue where the gates met. It declared that passing through these gates took you from the ordinary to the extraordinary. The gates were slightly open, although when I pushed the left-hand gate, it would not move, presumably welded by rust to stand slightly agape until time and weather eventually crumbled it to iron oxide. I had no intention of exploring on this trip; I merely wanted to find the place and get a feel of the land.

Back in the car, I consulted the land registry plan. I noticed that my property extended beyond the stream for a hundred or so yards. I backed up and turned and drove down to the hump-back bridge again. I parked in a gravelled area just before the stream and walked up to the crown of the bridge. The stream didn’t appear to be deep, just a matter of twelve inches or so, although from the vegetation on either side, I thought it could become quite deep in periods of heavy rain. The map didn’t give it a name, although I did think it may be the Chet, lending its name to the estate. I knew not where it rose, but I imagined that at some point to the east, it would flow into the River Colne. The land to the north of the stream rose to a crest and another hedgerow running along that crest. By comparing with the land registry plan, I assumed that was the boundary. I was disheartened as there was no development at all, nor had I seen any signs after leaving Great Yeldham to indicate that development was a possibility. I slumped back into the car and thought. Brian must have known that there was little chance of re-zoning. I smiled a bitter smile. He hadn’t actually said the land was ripe for development; I had believed far more than he inferred. I made a mental note to look into who was renting land and under what terms. Maybe there was enough there to pay the costs of the capital. I retraced my steps to Great Yeldham, where I had seen a road sign for Braintree.

In Braintree, I found the Council offices and then sought out the planning department. They, thoughtfully, had put up a map of the area with designated development areas shaded in red for commercial, blue for residential, and green for where development was not allowed. There was no sign of red or blue anywhere around Great Yeldham; it was all green. I asked if I could see the planning officer. It was always a good idea to cultivate this officer. Often, building consent can be granted if the developer was prepared to take on some civil engineering as well, like straightening a road or making improvements to a road junction. I was wasting my time. There were no plans for any development in the area around the Chetford Estate. I mentioned to him the house on the estate. I wondered if I could do anything like pulling it down and building two or three high-class properties on that land. He looked shocked at the suggestion. That would set a precedent for the area, and the Council would not grant planning permission for that. Of course, if I were to restore the property, that would be fine, as long as I didn’t increase the footprint of the property.

I left the Council offices in a bad mood. I certainly seemed to have bought a pig in a poke. I couldn’t blame anyone else; it was my fault entirely. My bad mood persisted as I drove back to the Holiday Inn. I found Tina in the bar. She was far more upbeat than I. Even after telling her of my disappointments of the day, she remained upbeat. I would have thought at the least she would be dismayed as I was. But no, she wasn’t. “I have found out quite a lot. I had to go to Chelmsford to the Records office. I took a taxi, and I have the receipts.”

I looked up. “A taxi? You could have gone by train!”

“Taxi was much faster, and you will want to know what I have discovered.”

“It had better be good.” I grumbled.

“The Estate was owned by the same family for some four hundred years. The last owner was killed in nineteen fifteen in France. He had no descendants, and there was a lot of money owing, so the estate was taken by the Inland Revenue in lieu of taxes. That’s how the land fell into the hands of the Army. The house was burnt down in the same year and was never re-built. The army used the land as a training ground for the Kitchener volunteers. During the Twenties and thirties, it became a training area for the Garrison at Colchester, and during the Second World War, it was used by the parachute regiment and the American Airborne as a drop zone.” Tina paused and looked as if she knew a secret and was bursting to tell it. “The thing is, Mr. Chandler.” She emphasized my name. “The thing is that the name of the family that owned the Chetford Estate was Chandler!” She sat back, awaiting my reaction. I think she believed that this fact would excite me, but I remained calm. Tina shot me a look of exasperation. “Don’t you find that odd?”

I shook my head. “No, Tina. Chandler is not an uncommon name. If you went through the telephone directory, you would doubtless find quite a few. Possibly some of them would be related, but having a surname in common doesn’t automatically mean that you are related.”

“Oh, you are impossible.” She declared. “Anyway, I am going back to the records office tomorrow. There’s someone I need to meet. He seems to be the unofficial historian of Essex. Perhaps you should be there as well; it will save me the trouble of making lots of notes and telling you later.”

“I may as well. From what I have discovered today, there is little chance of any kind of development on that land.”

Tina grinned. “Losing our touch, are we?”

I shook my head. “Just remind me in the future not to do favours for property speculators up shit creek.”

I then changed the topic. “What’s the name of that Pole we use for renovation? I may have a job for him.”

“Aleksy. It’s the Polish name for Alexander.” I perked up. Tina had come back so quickly I wondered if there was something going on. Tina noticed my expression, so she continued. “It’s none of your business, but I have been going out with Aleksy for nearly a year now. He’s talking about us getting married.”

“And you keep teasing me with your short skirts and plunging necklines.”

Tina grinned. “Well, I have to keep you interested to keep my job. I have always hoped that the more I flash, the more you will pay me.”

“I pay you too much as it is.”

“Huh! You are a miserly employer.”

“And you are an impudent employee.”

“Yeah. But you love me really.” Tina smiled sweetly and fluttered her eyelashes. “What job do you have for Aleksy?”

“The uninhabited house. If that was thoroughly renovated, I believe I could get quite a lot for it.”

“OK. I’ll get him to go and have a look.”

“Well, while you are organising everything, just keep in mind that I need to be informed. In fact, I think I will come up when he goes to do the inspection.”

“Spoilsport!”

I drove us down to Chelmsford the next day. I had no other reason to stay in Braintree. Tina guided me to the library. You couldn’t actually go to the records office, but with the right accreditation, could access their data from the library. However, according to Tina, we were going to meet someone who had seemingly total access to the records. She also informed me that this guy was an amateur historian who had published quite a few books on the history of Essex. Mr. Prescott, the historian, was waiting for us as we went through the doors to the library. He greeted Tina cheerily, who wouldn’t? Then, transferring his laptop to his left hand, shook my hand. “Mr. Chandler. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”