The Wednesday found Ashcroft sitting in Fenby’s living room listening to the clock ticking
its way to a quarter past the hour.
“Ned, tell me who is this draughtsman we are waiting for?”
“He is called Lincoln. He was the architect behind the Miller’s Arms over in Everly.”
“Lincoln? So that would be Austin Lincoln?”
Without further ado, Ashcroft pulled together the various personal possessions he had placed
in front of him – paper, pencils, plans – and headed for the door.
“George, where are you off to?”
“Austin Lincoln is nowt but a drunkard and a wastrel, Ned. I’m surprised at your lack of
judgment here. I am going.”
He eased open Fenby’s front door and there, standing before him, was Lincoln. Furthermore
Lincoln had a large leather case under his arm which appeared to carry materials.
The truth of it was that Lincoln had retained nothing of Fenby’s exhortations the previous
night, but the landlord, Lincoln’s brother-in-law, had overheard the talk and scribbled down
the details. Once the drunkard awoke from his alcoholic reverie, it was impressed upon him
that this was an appointment he must keep. Ashcroft returned to the room.
For two hours the three men scribbled plans and ideas on paper, talked and argued animatedly
and finally shook hands on a deal. What had amazed both Fenby and Ashcroft was the
manner of Lincoln’s awakening. It had seemed like the world had abandoned the former
architect-cum-draughtsman and this sudden wanting of his skills and abilities had breathed
The following day Fenby trudged through a foul winter’s morning to Lord Huntley’s estate
office to find a tweedy, ridiculously bewhiskered official of the Lord’s and slip an envelope
“Mr Fenby, isn’t it?” said Huntley’s man, Cawthorne. “And what have I got in here?”
