PROLOGUE

Arthur Wellington was pouring his afternoon cup of peppermint tea when he heard the knock on the door. He paused, his fingers curling uncertainly around the handle of his china cup. It had been four years since his wife, Grace, had died and since then, he didn't remember the last time someone had come calling.

He put down the cup and made his way to the front door. It was flanked by a small panel of glass and Arthur peered through it suspiciously for a moment. The man on the other side was studying the door intently - the kind of man who Arthur, who had all the gentility of a senior citizen, absolutely detested. He was a redhead, saw Arthur immediately. A little thick at the jowls and dressed in some outrageous jeans and an orange shirt. A yellow helmet hung casually at the nape of his neck.

Arthur decided it would be best not to open the door just yet. 'Yes?' he asked, a little uncertainly.

'Arthur Wellington? My name is Crowl. Rudy Crowl. I work for Malfoy Enterprises. Could you open the door a moment, please? I have to discuss a few things with you.'

Reluctantly, Arthur opened the door. And then, because his parents had hammered a strong sense of etiquette into him, he added, 'Do come in. Would you like a cup of peppermint tea?'

Crowl scratched the top of his head, scrunching up one side of his face. Arthur's distaste deepened. The man was dowdy, plump and broad, with oil stains on his clothes. His hands looked slightly muddy. 'Some other time, maybe,' he said, 'I'd shake hands with you, but I'm filthy right now. Anywhere we could sit down?'

Arthur led Crowl to his parlor, and cringed a little when he saw the man lower himself onto Grace's favourite chintz divan. 'Now then,' said Crowl, once he was comfortable. 'I have a bit of news for you, Mr Wellington. I warn you, this might come as a bit of a shock.'

'What sort of shock?' Arthur asked, pleasantly. He was beginning to suspect that Crowl was some sort of conman, and his fingers tightened automatically around the little cushion in his armchair, in which he his a wad of notes - his life savings.

'It's about your land,' explained Crowl. 'More specifically, not all of your land, but around three acres of it from the back fence onwards, starting from the road.'

Arthur felt a strange foreboding prickling up his spine. 'What about it?' he asked.

Crowl said calmly, 'It doesn't belong to you anymore. I have a legal declaration here - from Malfoy Enterprises, with whom I am employed as a contractor - which lays claim to that land and similar chunks of several of your neighbours' property.'

He produced a clip board, with a few complicated-looking sheets on it. Then, he whipped out a pen and looked expectantly at Arthur, who had gone very red in the face.

'What's the pen for?'

'Why, so you can sign this document, of course, Mr Wellington. At Malfoy Enterprises, we like to do things in an organised fashion. Even though it's accepted that the company does, in fact, own that land, it's better to have all the details threshed out.'

'Owns my land?' snapped Arthur. 'What on earth gave your precious Mr Malfoy that impression? This land is mine. It's been in my family for generations - we farm here! And stop brandishing that pen in my face, Mr Crowl. I have no intention of signing anything.'

Crowl sighed. He looked like someone who had just discovered that a piece of work was much more complicated than he'd initially assumed.

'I thought you'd make a bit of a protest about this, Mr Wellington,' he said, soberly. 'Which is why I've brought all the paperwork that proves that-'

'This land is mine!' bellowed Arthur.

Crowl tutted. He produced a few more papers. These, Arthur noticed, were handwritten in ink, in an old-fashioned calligraphy, and signed in - he flinched - was that blood?

'What's that?' he demanded.

Crowl looked pleased that he'd asked. 'These,' he explained, 'Are the documents that prove that three acres of this land belong to Malfoy Enterprises.'

'You're out of your mind,' Arthur said, with disgust. He had finally come to the conclusion that Crowl was playing some sort of sick joke. 'This land belonged to my father before me, and my grandfather before-'

'That,' finished Crowl. 'And so on and so forth. And in the year 1633, when these documents were written, this land belonged to a Jameson Wellington, possibly one in your line of ancestors.'

Arthur froze in shock. He knew exactly who Crowl was talking about. A potrait of the man hung in his attic.

'What does that have to do with it?' he asked, suspiciously.

'Everything, Mr Wellington,' said Crowl, and shuffling the papers together, he handed them to him.

As Arthur read the crawling script, he felt the blood drain from his face. He read them a second time, just to make sure he was seeing right.

'That's ridiculous,' he said, finally, but without much conviction.

Crowl smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. 'I don't think so in the least, Mr Wellington. It's perfectly legal. Don't feel too miserable about it, though. It's only three acres.'

'My back garden,' Arthur said, dully, 'My wife used to grow peonies there.'

'Your wive's peonies won't be the only ones that are going. Every home in this village has the same obligation.'

Slowly, Arthur looked up. 'There are more than a hundred homes in this village,' he said, slowly. 'What on earth is Malfoy Enterprises going to do with three hundred acres of land?'

Crowl grinned widely. His lips pulled back over slightly uneven teeth and Arthur shuddered.

'Why, don't you know, Mr Wellington? The Apothacery Factory.'