by Leah Hope
“Well I don’t know about famous, infamous maybe”, Gil replied with a laugh.
Spotting Gil and Bridget’s overnight bags on the hall floor and two garment bags folded over the back of the kitchen chairs, Jenny said “haven’t you shown our guests to their room Mark? Honestly, men!” she added, rolling her eyes. “Come on you two” follow me” she said, turning to Gil and Bridget, “let’s get these glamorous outfits of yours hung up shall we.”
*
At half past five, Mark, Gil and Bridget set out for the village of Brimstead, where the Marshall-Dobbs lived. Mark gave the pair of undercover sleuths a final briefing with an order not to do anything stupid or brave. All they had to do was listen to conversations and report back. Mark almost crashed the car when Bridget asked if one of them should wear a wire. He told her she had been watching too many American cop shows.
At ten minutes to six, Mark pulled up outside the impressive wrought iron gates of Brimstead Manor. Whatever Bridget had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t the stunningly beautiful mock Jacobean manor house in front of her. The house was built in a classic “E” shape and was perfectly symmetrical. Two rows of mullioned windows stretched across the red brick built facade with a third set into the expansive gabled roof. Swathes of manicured lawns completed the picture of stylish country living. Bridget looked on in awe as expensive looking cars deposited their equally expensive looking occupants at the top of the circular drive.
“Gil, I’m not sure I can do this” Bridget wailed with a very worried look on her face.
“Do what? All we have to do is get ourselves in there, enjoy some posh nosh and keep our ears open for anything interesting. Besides I didn’t come all this way dressed like a penguin to back out now.”
“You’ll be fine Bridget” Mark said reassuringly. “Don’t forget what I said, no heroics and I’ll see you back here at midnight. But text me if you need me to pick you up earlier or later. But most important of all, enjoy yourselves!”
At Mark’s mention of midnight, Bridget tried to imagine herself as Cinderella on her way to meet Prince Charming but for some reason felt more like Little Red Riding Hood en route to grandma’s house.
Gil and Bridget were greeted in the great hall by a very smartly dressed attendant who ushered them into a room to their right where they were invited to help themselves to the largest selection of canapés Bridget had ever seen. As she picked up a glass of champagne, Gil looked around in vain for a thirst quenching beer. Finding none, he reluctantly helped himself to a glass of the fizzy stuff too.
As she tried to juggle a plate of canapés and the champagne whilst at the same time trying not to get caviar all over her frock, Bridget took in the luxurious surroundings. The walls were oak panelled and covered with either paintings in the style of the old masters or with tapestries. An enormous fireplace took up almost the full width of one of the room’s shorter walls and Bridget marvelled at the ornate plaster carving above it. In light of what Mark Addison had said about Jeremy Marshall-Dobbs’ background, Bridget had been expecting his home to be a chrome and glass box with as much charm as a medical centre. But she had to admit that she was wrong. Whoever designed the interior of Brimstead Manor had certainly done it with taste and style. Jeremy Marshall-Dobbs had gone up a notch or two in her estimation
As the room rapidly filled up with the great and the good, Bridget was relieved to see that although full-length downs predominated, she certainly wasn’t the only woman in a cocktail dress. She nibbled on her canapés and wondered nervously when they would meet the man himself. She didn’t have long to wait when an announcement invited guests to assemble in the great hall where they would be addressed by their host.
Bridget hadn’t had time to appreciate the grandeur of the hall on their arrival but as she and Gil stood amongst their fellow guests she quickly cast her eye around taking in the splendour of yet more oak panelling, tapestries, embroidered wall hangings and suits of armour. Gil asked Bridget with a whisper of she had spotted any of the local hoods yet only to be dug in the ribs and ordered to “shush” as a fanfare of trumpeters, who had silently lined up on the enormous oak staircase, heralded the arrival of the hosts.
Jeremy Marshall-Dobbs was a rotund, balding, short man without any redeeming physical features, or at least none that Bridget could see from her vantage point near the fireplace. Unsurprisingly, his wife was a complete contrast. Tall, and elegant with dark flowing hair, Bridget was sure that everyone in the room was thinking the same thought. Ex-model Tania would doubtless not have looked at him twice had he remained plain old “Jerry Marshall”. She was dressed in a magnificent off-the shoulder gown, complete with train, in a deep burgundy. Jeremy wore a cummerbund in the same colour. Thankfully the host’s welcoming address was brief and limited to outlining the schedule for the evening plus a heart-felt plea that guests dig deep into their pockets when it came to the auction which would bring the evening to a close.
Guests were invited to take their seats in the magnificent oak-framed orangery to the left of the great hall where a string quartet was already playing a selection of classical and more modern music in the lofty minstrel’s gallery above. Bridget was relieved that guests could sit where they chose so Gil steered them towards a table as near to the middle of the room as he could. He had whispered to Bridget that a central position should allow them to pick up more of the surrounding chatter. Bridget wasn’t so sure she would be able to hear anything meaningful above the hubbub of conversation and background music. She nevertheless settled herself into her seat and hoped she didn’t look as uncomfortable as she felt.
Each circular table seated ten. A middle-aged man with a shock of strawberry blond hair seated on Bridget’s right suggested that everyone briefly introduced themselves. Without waiting for a response he swiftly introduced himself and his wife as Henry and Arabella Lovatt-Gore. They were landowners and neighbours of Jeremy and Tania. Next came Lawrence and Michelle Tattershall who owned a string of hairdressing and beauty salons. Marcus Emmett was manager of a local bank (Bridget was amazed as he didn’t look more than thirty and thought how her father had to wait until middle age to achieve such a position). His wife Jo was a theatre nurse. Bridget was relieved when Gil introduced them both next, remembering not to mention they came from Whytecliffe-on-sea in case it caused any raised eyebrows. Mark Addison had suggested they might want to use different names but Bridget insisted that the occasion would be stressful enough without forgetting half way through the evening who she was supposed to be. Besides, she had pointed out, Malcolm Cresswell’s “wife” hadn’t responded when he called her “Sheil” on the ferry and she didn’t want to get caught out. Sisters Zoe and Martina Blakeney, owners of a local riding school, completed the numbers around the table. Gil couldn’t see any of them as crooks and began to wonder if the evening would be a complete waste of time. He changed his mind however when the food and wine were served.
The first course of carpaccio of beef accompanied by baby crudités was served with a forty year old Bordeaux. Not a bad start Gil thought, things are looking up. Next came, unsurprisingly, Dover sole served with a delicate white Burgundy. The venison with blackberry sauce was served with a very robust New World Shiraz and was followed by a palate-cleansing lemon sorbet. A selection of British cheeses came next (before the dessert, French-style), served with a fruity Merlot. Dessert was an iced apricot parfait served in an almond tuile basket, which looked simplicity itself but Bridget declared it one of the most delicious things she’d ever eaten. Gil’s response was that it was the accompanying Barsac that made it memorable.
As coffee was served, Gil and Bridget joined in the chit-chat around the table. All of it was typical every-day stuff and no-one said even one word to remotely suggest that they weren’t anything but upstanding pillars of the community. Both Gil and Bridget had even tipped their chairs back as far as they dared to try to pick up the conversation from the tables behind them but that too drew a blank. These people are so
dull, Bridget thought to herself.
Sensing that Gil was getting concerned that they would have nothing to report back to Mark, Bridget decided to branch out and pay a visit to the powder room. She had spotted the sign indicating its location on the first floor when she had first arrived. She had been determined to pay it at least one visit during the evening so that she could have a good look around at the same time. Bridget climbed the same oak staircase where the hosts had made their grand entrance a few hours earlier and followed the sign to her right. In case anyone missed it, another smartly dressed attendant was on hand to point the way, apparently her only duty for the evening.
Bridget was relieved that the powder room was empty, apart from yet another attendant who had to multi-task by not only presenting warm hand towels to guests but also spraying them with expensive perfume. Tricky stuff. Bridget decided she would lurk in one of the two cubicles for as long as she dared before the attendant started clambering over the top to check that she hadn’t passed out, in the hope of overhearing something damning. She didn’t have long to wait.
Two women who had clearly been taking full advantage of the free wine, entered the room, banging the door loudly against the wall as they did so, setting them both off in a fit of high-pitched giggles. Hilarious, Bridget thought. From the sounds that followed, Bridget guessed that both women had gone into the only remaining empty cubicle. When she couldn’t stand the raucous giggling any longer she decided to leave her hiding place, wash her hands and return a few minutes later to a different cubicle. In that way, the attendant, who seemed to have temporarily deserted her post, wouldn’t be suspicious about the same cubicle being permanently occupied.
As Bridget left the safety of the powder room, she looked briefly to her right and left for possible search areas later. What she would be searching for, she had no idea. Maybe she would know when she found it. But for now, she needed to get back so as not to miss anything of interest that the garrulous twosome might let slip.
One of the women was now washing her hands whilst her friend drowned herself in perfume. Bridget almost choked as she made her way into the end cubicle and locked the door.
“So what do you think of it then Tash?” One of the women asked.
“It’s alright, innit, well for free anyway. The food’s a bit poncey for my liking but there’s no shortage of booze, I’ll say that for ‘em.”
“So is your Paul meeting Josser at the usual spot later?”
“Yeah, I think so. ’e’s asked him to get four or five of them expensive laptops tonight. They’re always in demand and easy to shift. ‘e might ‘ave to shoot off before the end though, depending what time it finishes ‘ere.”
“Then ‘ow are you gonna get ‘ome?”
“Well I ‘oped you’d give us a lift didn’t I?”
“Course we will love, but we may ‘ave to get a taxi. Tommo’s been knockin’ that free booze back like there’s no tomorrow.”
“But it’s not exactly free is it? I mean we ‘ad to pay for the tickets and they weren’t cheap was they.”
“You didn’t pay for your tickets did you, you silly mare! Me and Tommo nicked ours when that Jerry dropped some of ‘em off for a couple of old duffers at the golf club. The stupid sod didn’t even notice ‘ow many there were. Serves ‘im right.”
“Oh well, never mind, it’s too late to do anything about it now. C’mon, we’d better be getting back, that auction thingy is starting soon.”
Bridget waited for a few moments after she’d heard the door bang once more and left the safety of the cubicle. Thankfully the powder room was empty. Having heard the women say that the auction was about to start, Bridget decided to abandon her plan to nose around some of the nearby rooms and head back to Gil. He’ll be wondering where on earth I’ve got to, she said to herself, as she hurriedly made her way back to the orangery.
Most of the guests were stood around in small groups chatting when she arrived. Bridget soon spotted Gil talking to a couple of men near one of the French windows. Hoping he might be picking up something useful, she made her way back to their table. Only Zoe Blakeney was there and the two made polite small talk although Bridget was itching for Gil to get back to tell him what she’d overheard.
She glanced at her watch, eleven fifteen. If she were honest, the thought of the auction didn’t hold much appeal for her so if Gil felt the same, she intended to suggest they hang on for another half an hour before making their way to meet Mark. To Bridget’s relief, an announcement from the minstrel’s gallery asked all guests to return to their tables as the auction was about to begin. Gil hurriedly took his seat and shook his head in response to Bridget’s raised eyebrows. She took that to mean he hadn’t picked up anything of interest. After listening to trips to Paris being bought for £5000 along with balloon flights and spa weekends going for almost as much, Gil and Bridget had had enough and after bidding goodnight to the guests on their table, made their way out to the great hall. A few people were milling around along with a handful of attendants who Bridget thought must now be exhausted after being on their feet all evening as well as being bored out of their minds having had very little to do. Bridget had briefly relayed to Gil the conversation she had overheard in the ladies powder room, which, on reflection, she concluded was probably of no use at all. Gil had heard nothing but good about Jeremy Marshall-Dobbs so had decided the evening had been a waste of time after all. Apart from the food and wine that is.
Mark Addison was waiting for them in almost exactly the same spot where he had dropped the off almost six hours earlier. Gil sat in the front passenger seat next to Mark and gave him a quick résumé of how the evening had gone and how disappointed he was not to have got even the slightest bit of dirt on Jeremy Marshall-Dobbs. Gil glanced around towards Bridget in the back seat who had her head slumped against the door. Not knowing if she had nodded off or not, he decided not to disturb her until they got to Mark’s.
Comfortably settled in Mark’s conservatory with coffees (Jenny had gone to bed as the next day was a school day), Bridget repeated the women’s conversation she had overheard. “Although one of them did mention the name “Jerry” it’s probably someone entirely different so I doubt if it’s any use to you at all. I’m so sorry Mark that…”
“On the contrary Bridget” Mark interrupted. “You may not have got anything on the Marshall-Dobbs but I think you’ve stumbled on the identity of the little tea-leaf who’s been leading us a merry dance over on the Elms estate. From what you’ve said, this guy Paul is getting “Josser” to steal to order and then probably fencing the stuff himself. I don’t know that name but I’m sure there are a couple of our narks out there who will. As for Paul, you said his girlfriend was called Tash, which I’m guessing is short for Natasha, so that should help us narrow it down a bit. The “Jerry” they mentioned could well be our Mr Marshall-Dobbs, we know he’s a big-wig down at the golf club so I think we need to pay that place a visit.”
“I’m just sorry that I couldn’t get anything incriminating on him, Jerry I mean” said Gil, disappointed at not being able to match his sister’s success. “From what little I heard the man seems to be able to walk on water.”
“Well you know what they say Gil, if something, or someone in this case, seems too good to be true, then it probably is. So don’t beat yourself up, that in itself could still turn out to be useful information.”
“What about the name “Tommo”, does that ring any bells?” Bridget asked.
“Not immediately, but clearly he’s a friend or associate of Paul so once we’ve identified him it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out who he hangs out with. The more I think of it the more I’m certain that we’ve almost got this one cracked. It’s just a question of putting the pieces together. As you know Bridget, I laughed when you mentioned wearing a wire but I wish I’d taken you seriously. What you overheard could have been vital evidence.”
“So this wouldn't be any use then?” Bridget said, casually holding up
her mobile phone. “I thought I’d put it on record, just in case.”
“Bridget Honeyman, you little beauty!” Mark exclaimed as he got up and planted a kiss on her cheek.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Despite their success in possibly identifying the gang of thieves, both Gil and Bridget felt rather deflated during the days that followed. They were pleased of course that they had been able to help but it still didn’t get them any nearer to solving the Sheila Cresswell mystery. Even if Jeremy Marshall-Dobbs was somehow mixed up in matters, there was still nothing to connect him to Sheila, other than the fact that she had been pictured holding a teddy bear that may have been stolen from his home. But the connection was there all the same, however tenuous. Was it enough to get her killed, even supposing that she had been killed rather than having simply fallen overboard? Sure, the bear had some value, £1,0000 wasn’t to be sneezed at after all, but was it enough to kill for? And why not just simply steal the bear back without resorting to murder? Bridget berated herself for not being brave enough to have a poke around some of the upstairs rooms at Brimstead Manor when she’d had the chance. Although what she was expecting to have found, she had no idea. A child’s bedroom full of stuffed toys? Maybe, but what would that prove?
Something was nagging at the back of Bridget’s mind but try as she might, she couldn’t bring it to the front. Was it something she’d seen or heard? She wished she knew, but it was no good, every time she thought she had it, it would vanish deeper into the dark recesses of her brain. Eventually she forced herself to stop thinking about it altogether, in the hope it would suddenly pop into her consciousness. Two days on and still nothing. So much for that theory, she thought despondently.
As usual, Gil had put the whole affair behind him. Buoyed with their, or rather with Bridget’s success he considered the matter closed. Their snooping days were over and he was perfectly content to leave things to the police. That didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in what had happened to Sheila Cresswell, but it didn’t occupy most of his waking thoughts as it did his sister’s.
