by T E Kinsey
Sir Hector was highly amused by the idea. He called one of his pals over and told him, and within a few minutes we were at the centre of a good-naturedly boisterous group of ageing rugby players who introduced themselves as The Old Codgers and adopted us as their honoured guests for the rest of the afternoon.
There was a balcony on the first floor of the white-painted clubhouse which afforded a splendid view of the pitch and where chairs had been set out for club officials and their guests. Sir Hector bagged three of the best seats and we settled in to watch the match in the company of some extremely entertaining old men.
The match itself was a corker. It was a hard-fought contest between two village teams who would ordinarily have had no business to be playing in such a prestigious final and we all became quite caught up in the excitement of it all. At one point the referee blew his whistle and awarded a penalty against Littleton which caused Lady Hardcastle to leap to her feet and begin yelling her protests in the most indelicate language and suggesting that the beleaguered official was favouring Nibley. I tugged on her sleeve, urging her to sit down.
‘It was a fair call, my lady,’ I said. ‘The curly-headed chap was in front of the ball when it was kicked so he wasn’t allowed to run forwards and take it like that.’
There were murmurs of agreement from the Old Codgers.
‘Yes, well,’ she said, huffily. ‘I still don’t like him. He has shifty eyes.’
This elicited guffaws from our new friends who, as they became increasingly drunk during the course of the rest of the match, took to calling the referee “Shifty”.
The match ended with Littleton Cotterell having scored twelve points to North Nibley’s nine, and the celebrations began. Our elderly hosts were well on the way to inebriation by the end of the match, but Littleton’s victory saw them tucking in to the ale with renewed vigour. Class barriers were broken down by the sporting event and they supped with men from the villages and neighbouring farms as equals as the celebrations got properly underway.
There were women there, too, but mostly wives and sweethearts of the players and supporters, and all of us left as soon as the ribald singing began. Rugby songs tend towards the smutty and although both Lady Hardcastle and I found them terrifically amusing, we thought we might save the gentlemen some embarrassment by leaving them to their fun, not to mention salvaging something of our own reputations – it wouldn’t do to be seen to be enjoying Rabelaisian revelries when the other women had decorously fled.
We said our goodbyes to Sir Hector.
‘Cheerio, m’dears,’ he said, slightly slurred. ‘I say, you must come to the club dinner next Friday. The Memsahib still won’t be back and you can be my guests.’
‘Both of us, sir?’ I said, slightly dubious that I should be welcome at a rugby club dinner.
‘You especially, m’dear,’ he said. ‘The Old Codgers were very taken with you – thought you knew a lot more about the game than a lot of the chaps. They insisted you be invited.’
‘Then we shall be delighted,’ said Lady Hardcastle, kissing his cheek. ‘Thank you so much for the hospitality, Hector darling, we’ve had simply the most wonderful afternoon. Do give my love to Gertie, won’t you. Cheerio.’
‘Shall do, m’dear, shall do. Toddlepip,’ he said with a cheery wave, and tottered off to join his chums.
With the roof down and the sun on our faces, we drove home for supper, followed by brandy and our own renditions of some of the more vulgar songs from the rugby club repertoire.
It was the last full week of May and summer had arrived. We spent our days on country walks and enjoyed afternoon teas at an enterprising tea shop in Chipping Bevington that had placed one or two tables on the pavement outside in the Continental style. Many of the local residents were mystified by the notion of sitting outside to sip their tea and eat their cake, but we blazed our customary trail through the stodginess of convention and after a couple of days the pavement tables were as well frequented as any in Paris or Rome as the more adventurous denizens of the town joined us for al fresco tiffin.
Friday was a day spent at home, dealing with more than the usual number of problems and complaints from the builders and listening to the apologies of the telephone engineers who were having more difficulties than they had foreseen with the installation of the telegraph poles and cables between the house and the rest of what they called “the network”. I tried to lose myself in reading the newspaper and baking, but stories about the tram company chairman being accused of impropriety with a lady of the night and the financial director of the same company accused of embezzlement did little to distract me, and somehow baking had lost its shine after half my efforts during the week of the storms had either rotted or gone stale before we could eat them.
It was a relief when they had all finally packed up for the week and gone home, leaving us with a muddy building site in the front garden and still no telephone, but with the prospect of a fuss-free weekend by way of compensation.
We dressed formally for the dinner which was to be held at an hotel in Chipping Bevington (Littleton Cotterell being without the facilities to provide a grand dinner, though I gather that Joe had offered them exclusive use of the snug of the Dog and Duck). Sir Hector, naturally, was being driven to the do by Bert and had generously offered to pick us up on the way.
‘I know a lot of chaps do it,’ he had said, ‘but I don’t hold with driving when you’ve had a few drinks. Knew a fella in India, had a skinful at the club, completely pie-eyed, tried to ride his bicycle back to his bungalow, fell off and got mauled by a tiger.’
Lady Hardcastle had laughed.
‘I really don’t think there are many tigers in Gloucestershire, Hector, and I can’t imagine how one might fall off a motorcar.’
‘No, m’dear,’ he had insisted, ‘the principle still holds. Can’t control a machine when you’ve had a few drinks and it would be a shame to miss out on the wine. The Grey Goose has the most excellent cellar. Landlord’s a bit of an oenophile; used to be a wine steward in London.’
And so we had accepted his kind offer and were ready and waiting when, at seven o’clock on the dot, Bert had rung the doorbell.
The journey had been swift and comfortable, with Sir Hector in voluble mood (I suspect he’d already had a pre-prandial scotch or two) and Bert rolling his eyes at his employer’s more outrageous stories. We were soon outside the Grey Goose, with the doors of the motorcar held open for us by young men from the rugby club, dressed in white tie, but with waistcoats in the same shades of blue and gold as Sir Hector’s.
There was champagne in the bar where we were introduced to several of the team members and were accosted by several of the Old Codgers who seemed genuinely delighted to see us. When the gong sounded for dinner, Sir Hector offered Lady Hardcastle and me an arm each and we walked into the dining room behind the club president and his wife. As the special guests of the Grand Eternal Poobah we were seated at the top table where the table linen was crisp and white, the cutlery silver and the glassware crystal; quite a luxurious setting for a rugby club dinner.
The food was certainly above average but, as promised, it was the wine that really set the Grey Goose apart. Glass after glass of the most perfectly matched wines accompanied each course and by the time we arrived at the port (for which the ladies were allowed to remain), both Lady Hardcastle and I were really rather squiffy.
The company, too, had been most convivial. The club president, Lancelot Treble, was a jovial man in his forties, with a quick wit and a stock of anecdotes which became racier and racier as the evening wore on and the level of wine remaining in the bottles went down. His speech of congratulation to the First XV for their unexpected victory had been short and heartfelt, and with enough good natured humour to save it from ungracious boastfulness. His wife, Cissie, was easily his comic equal, and her humorous observations on the other club members rendered even those of us who didn’t know them helpless with laughter.
Shortly before
midnight, Mr Treble stood and called for order. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said in a loud, clear voice. ‘I fear our time here is coming to an end. The good folk of The Grey Goose wish us well, but wish us gone. They have homes to go to, and have requested in the friendliest and most respectful terms, that we sling our collective hooks and leave them to tidy up.’
There were mixed calls of “Shame!” and “Good for them!”
He waited for the commotion to die down. ‘And so I should like to propose a vote of thanks to the chef, the staff and to the landlord for laying on this sumptuous feast.”
Cries of “Hear, hear!”
‘And,’ continued Mr Treble, ‘that we repair to the clubhouse to end the night in the traditional manner.’
Cheering ensued.
‘There’s a charabanc to take the gentlemen back to the club, and taxicabs and carriages have been arranged to take those ladies home who do not have their own transport.’
There was more cheering and a good deal of kerfuffle as goodbyes were said to wives and sweethearts and the gentlemen of the club readied themselves for the serious business of… whatever it was that rugby club members got up to when the ladies weren’t around.
We found Bert asleep in the motorcar a short way down the High Street and, having woken him and given him time to collect his wits and start the engine, asked him in as sober tones as we could manage if he would be an absolute poppet and take us home. With a knowing smile, he agreed, and in almost no time at all we were tucked up and sleeping off the effects of a really rather splendid evening.
We slept in on Saturday morning. There was little for me to do other than get breakfast, and we had agreed as we tumbled into the hall and struggled with our coats and hats that breakfast could wait. It was eleven o’clock by the time I stumbled blearily into the kitchen in my dressing gown and started the fire in the range. The doorbell rang.
It was becoming something of a routine, this “interrupting Flo while she’s busy making breakfast” thing, and I joked to myself as I shambled through to the hall that it was probably Sergeant Dobson with news of a baffling crime which had happened overnight and which he was powerless to solve. I opened the door.
‘Mornin’, miss,’ said Sergeant Dobson. He noticed my state of dress. ‘Sorry to bother you so… early… but is your mistress at home? There’s been a bit of a to-do up at the rugby club.’
I smiled ruefully. ‘Come on in, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘Make yourself comfortable in the kitchen and I’ll see if I can rouse her. I’ve only just lit the range, so tea might take a while, but I’ll do my best when I get back.’
I left him to find his own way to the kitchen and went upstairs. Lady Hardcastle was just beginning to stir as I drew the curtains and let the morning sun bring life to the room.
‘What ho, pet,’ she croaked. ‘Was that the door?’
‘I’m afraid so, my lady,’ I said, picking up her dressing gown and holding it for her. ‘Sergeant Dobson with news of a “to-do” at the rugby club.’
‘That’s scarcely news,’ she said as she shrugged into the silken robe. ‘We saw them all setting off there last night after dinner. There was bound to be a to-do of some sort.’
‘That’s what I thought, my lady, but I doubt he’s come over to tell us that some rugby players got a little drunk and sang filthy songs. I suspect that something else has happened.’
‘As long as this “something else” comes with tea and aspirin, I’m game for anything.’
‘That’s certainly the talk in the taverns, my lady,’ I said, and we went downstairs together.
The sergeant stood as we entered the kitchen.
‘Good morning, Sergeant dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Please sit down. Is there tea, Flo?’
‘The range is still warming up, my lady,’ I said. ‘The kettle’s on but it might be a while yet.’
‘No matter,’ she said. ‘Perhaps a glass of water? Can we get you anything, Sergeant? Water? Milk?’
‘I shall be fine, thank you, m’lady,’ he said. ‘If there’s tea before I leaves that’ll be handsome, but to tell the truth I probably drinks too much of it as ’t is.’
‘I know what you mean,’ she said with a smile. ‘So what’s this “to-do” at the rugby club?’
‘There’s been a burglary.’
‘Has there, indeed? But the First XV and half the rest of the club were up there last night. How on earth did anyone manage to burgle the place?’
‘That’s the baffling part, m’lady. That’s why I come over here. I called Bristol for a detective, and Gloucester too, but they said they can’t spare anyone for something as trifling as a few rugby trophies and said I should do my best on my own, like.’
‘You’re never on your own in Littleton Cotterell, Sergeant,’ she said bracingly. ‘We shall help, shan’t we, pet?’
‘Of course, my lady,’ I said. ‘Anything and everything we can do.’
‘I knew I could rely on you two,’ said the sergeant with evident relief. ‘Thank you.’
‘So tell all. What actually happened?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I gathers you was at The Grey Goose with ’em last night.’
‘We were,’ I said.
‘Right. And you left about midnight when the lads all went back up to the club.’
‘Exactly so,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I presumed the beer would flow and hijinks would ensue.’
‘And so they did, m’lady. I woke Lance Treble this morning after the theft had been reported, and he said a rollicking good time was had by all. Well, he did once he’d stopped… beggin’ your pardon, ladies, but he was a little the worse for wear.’
‘I can very well imagine,’ said Lady Hardcastle, sipping her water.
‘According to Lance, they was all there till about four this mornin’ when he locked up and staggered home.’
‘So the burglar struck after dawn? And when there were potentially dozens of burly men around to see him. Intriguing. Perhaps he was watching the place to see when everyone left. Or perhaps he was a lucky opportunist. How did he get in? What did he take?
‘There’s a store room on the side of the clubhouse. They keeps groundskeeping tools up one end so there’s a door to the outside, and crates of beer and whatnot down t’other so there’s an inside door an’ all. It don’t look like either door was locked.’
‘If Treble were three sheets to the wind when he left, it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that he might have neglected his custodial responsibilities,’ said Lady Hardcastle, thoughtfully. ‘Were there any other possible means of entry?’
‘Maybe, m’lady, but to tell the truth we stopped looking.’
‘Oh?’ she said. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Footprints. Seems friend burglar stepped in a puddle of oil from the lawnmower and left a trail clear as day.’
‘How very inept of him,’ she said.
‘Or suspiciously convenient for us,’ I said.
‘Well, quite,’ she said.
‘As for what he took,’ resumed the sergeant, consulting his notebook, ‘that’s interestin’, too. He left the beer, the spirits, and the cash behind the bar, and helped himself to the Wessex Challenge Cup, a runner-up shield won by the Second XV in last year’s Severn Vale Tournament, a jersey worn by Ripper Henderson in the Great Brawl of ’98, and the penny the club originally paid for the land on which the club was built in 1895. Everything, in fact, that was in the trophy cabinet in the committee room.’
‘Well I never,’ she said. ‘Sentimental value only, then?’
‘Well, the Wessex cup is silver – that’d fetch a few bob. But you’re right, m’lady, the rest is only special to the club.’
‘Well, now that makes it all rather fascinating, eh, Flo? Oily footprints and missing trophies. Right up our street.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Righto, Sergeant,’ she said, ‘here’s the plan. Don’t let anyone interfere with the scene of the crime until Flo and I have had a chance to look ro
und. We’ll get dressed and make our way over there as soon as we can.’
‘Right you are, m’lady. I’ve left young Hancock at the club, he knows what to do. I appreciates your help.’ He got up to leave.
‘It’s entirely our pleasure, Sergeant. We had nothing planned today, did we, Flo?’
‘No, my lady,’ I said with a smile which I hoped concealed my disappointment at seeing my quiet, lazy Saturday slipping away from me.
‘Then I shall see myself out and leave you to your… preparations,’ said the sergeant. ‘Thank you again.’
Once he had gone, I took the still-unboiled kettle from the range and we both bustled off to get ready to face the criminal world once more.
The rugby club was on the other side of the village just off the road to Bristol and we decided that, since it was only a mile or so, the walk would do us good. We made good time despite our weariness and the weight of Lady Hardcastle’s canvas art bag, and we soon spotted the tall goal posts of the rugby pitch.
The lane up to the clubhouse was rutted, but mercifully free of mud, and as we rounded the final bend we finally saw the clubhouse itself. It was a large, white-painted, wooden building, much like the one we had been at the previous week, and, indeed, very much like most of the sporting pavilions I had ever seen. Steps led up to a small verandah where players might sit, and above it a balcony for spectators. A small clock tower showed the time as almost one o’clock.
We mounted the wooden steps and entered the building. The main space formed a communal room with a bar along one wall. It was sparsely decorated but felt homely with its mismatched tables and chairs and a handful of well-worn armchairs over by the large heating stove. It was in some disarray, with overflowing ashtrays, half-empty beer glasses and assorted other detritus lying about on the tables and the floor, and the whole place could have done with sweeping and airing, but it still felt very welcoming. A sign indicated that dressing rooms were to the right, while another pointed to the committee room to the left and the “Grand Eternal Poobah’s Dining Room” upstairs.
