by Tim Heald
‘Not that that’s anything to go by,’ said Lydeard. ‘Nouveau riche foreigner, God bless her.’
‘The point is,’ said Grithbrice, ‘that at the moment we all spend money on placing advertisements in the papers. I place one for Netherly, there’s one for Abney and one for Lydeard. And we all pay out money. Now if, instead, you had one advertisement for all three, we’d pay out less money and get the same result.’
‘We would?’
‘I think so. Take another example. We all want to get as many American tourists as possible but none of us is so rich that we can afford to pop over to the United States every time we want to drum up custom. But if we were to pool our resources we might be able to afford to send someone over every so often on behalf of all three properties. Do you follow?’
‘What would I have to do?’
‘In the first instance we form a legal partnership. Then we’d have to get some agreement drawn up saying what we’d cooperate on and what we’d keep independent. We can go into the details later.’
‘But you wouldn’t want me to move out or anything?’
‘Good Lord, no,’ said Grithbrice, seeming scandalized. ‘I think we’d have to agree on a rather more, er… professional approach. For example we’d start fifty-guinea dinners with you and Dot entertaining small groups of people on high-class package tours. And I think you need some sort of funfair. And maybe we could organize the occasional businessmen’s conference down here too. And you’ll have to expect an increase in attendance figures. You ought to be able to get at least 350,000 a year here. What are you at now?’
‘It was 75,000 last year,’ said Lydeard, scratching his head. ‘And going down.’
‘That’s patently criminal,’ said Grithbrice. ‘One of the finest homes in Britain and you only have 75,000 visitors a year. Awful.’
‘We had two Georgian coffee spoons stolen this morning,’ said Lydeard inconsequentially. ‘If 75,000 people steal two coffee spoons a day, how many coffee spoons will 350,000 people steal?’
‘None,’ said Grithbrice, triumphantly. ‘Because with your increased profits you’ll be able to employ properly qualified security agents who will prevent theft of that kind. What do you say?’
Lydeard pushed back his chair and appeared to give it a moment’s thought. ‘You’re on, young man,’ he said.
Bognor was staggered. He stared incredulously at Grithbrice, who winked.
‘Let’s drink to it,’ said Lydeard, pouring port into his glass and spilling some. He emptied the decanter, half of it into his guests’ glasses and half of it over the table.
‘To Abney-Arborfield-Lydeard Enterprises,’ intoned Grithbrice, standing up. The other two also lurched to their feet. ‘Long life and every success.’ All three drank to the dregs.
‘Better join the ladies,’ said Lydeard, beginning to walk carefully towards the door. He was swaying slightly.
‘Must have a pee, partner,’ said Grithbrice.
‘Oh,’ said Lydeard, who seemed to only half-hear the remark. ‘Third door on the left.’ When Grithbrice had gone, he turned to Bognor and was suddenly more alert.
For a moment Bognor thought he was going to let him into some momentous secret, but he appeared to catch himself just in time. Instead all he said was: ‘I hope you don’t mind, but don’t come downstairs tomorrow till you’re called. Sounds silly I know, but the fact is the burglar alarm’s liable to go off on the slightest pretext. Dot and the servants know how to avoid setting it off, but strangers are apt to do it and then we have half the constabulary out here and there’s all hell to pay. So I’ll make sure Albert or Ethel gives you a call as soon as I’ve switched the damn thing off. All right?’
Bognor smiled. ‘Naturally, if you say so.’
Lydeard patted him genially on the shoulder. ‘Good man,’ he said. ‘Know I can rely on you.’
He went through into the drawing-room while Bognor also went to the lavatory. He met Grithbrice on his way out.
‘Like taking sweets from a baby,’ said Grithbrice, smiling happily.
‘I wouldn’t be so cocky if I were you,’ he replied. ‘It might just turn out to be more like taking sweets from a stranger.’
12
BOGNOR WOKE EARLY NEXT morning and lay awake speculating. He juggled his three principal suspects and found each one unconvincing. Then he went back to sleep. When he woke again he was conscious of activity downstairs and out in the countryside beyond the estate. He heard from below the noise of indeterminate bustle, of footsteps and door slammings and conversation, while from without he distinguished cock-crowing and tractors. His watch said eight a.m. and he started to rise in a leisurely fashion. It looked as if Lydeard—the house if not the man—made an early start. By half past eight he had shaved in the primitive bathroom at the end of the corridor and was dressed in the inevitable, but well-cleaned and pressed, tweeds. Any minute now, he presumed, someone would come to tell him that the burglar alarm had been made safe. He started to make a list.
By eight-forty-five he had got bored with the list, and was sitting on the end of the bed trying to work out what the individual noises downstairs could mean. He was too far away from them to be able to tell.
By nine o’clock he was becoming irritated. The sounds had ceased to be like ‘first thing in the morning’ noises, and had settled down in some indefinable way to being ‘routine, part of the day’ noises.
By nine-fifteen he was sufficiently annoyed to go downstairs. His annoyance was also gradually becoming tinged with a distinct, if hazy, feeling of alarm. He found the breakfast room eventually, but the only person there was Miss Johnson.
‘Just finishing,’ she said, wiping her mouth with a table napkin. ‘You’re late. Oversleep?’
‘No,’ he said, sitting down heavily, his alarm accelerating. ‘They just forgot to call me.’
‘Who needs a call on a day like this?’ She smiled at him. She had the most perfect teeth.
‘I was waiting because of the burglar alarm.’
‘The burglar alarm? What burglar alarm?’
‘What do you mean what burglar alarm?’ This was upsetting him. He stood up. ‘Where are the others?’ he asked nervously. At that moment Dot Lydeard came in with an armful of flowers. ‘They’ll probably be at Long Coppice,’ she said. ‘Best place for pigeons and rabbits. I’ve never seen so many rabbits before this year. Poor little things.’
‘Lady Lydeard,’ he said, a note of worried concern creeping into his voice. ‘Is it true about your burglar alarm?’
‘What burglar alarm, Simon? If we had a burglar alarm we wouldn’t lose so many coffee spoons. We have no burglar alarm, dear. Would you like some toast?’
‘No, thank you.’ Bognor was shaking now. ‘Where is Long Coppice? What are they doing there with the rabbits and pigeons. Surely to God they’re not…’
‘Oh, I don’t suppose they’ll hit anything,’ said Lady Lydeard, ‘not with their hangovers. They’ll be back soon. Have some breakfast.’
‘No, honestly, I daren’t.’ Bognor was petrified. ‘I must get down there immediately. Where is it?’
‘It’s two miles along the Crowcombe road. You can’t miss it, there’s a ruined cottage on the corner with a “For Sale” notice.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, and fled, leaving the two women gazing after him incredulously.
He was not, as a rule, an accomplished or swift driver but this time he drove the Mini the two miles to Long Coppice in only a shade over two minutes. They were there all right. Underneath the ‘For Sale’ sign he saw the gleaming green Lagonda parked high on the bank. He pulled up behind it and got out. Then he stood still wondering where the men had got to. There was no sight nor sound of them. He waited a moment and then strode quickly past the ruin and into the wood beyond. It was thick to start with and he made slow progress, brushing scrub and undergrowth and boughs of larch and birch out of his way as he went, but after about a quarter of a mile the ground became sandy and the close-packed
trees gave way to well-spaced beech and oaks. From time to time he paused but could hear nothing. There were numerous rabbit holes but he saw no rabbits. He wondered if he had come the right way.
Then he heard a shot, closely followed by a shout and the barking of dogs. It seemed to come from his left and he started to run in that direction. A second later another shot rang out, confirming that his sense of direction was accurate. He went on running and suddenly emerged into a clearing from which he could see an extraordinary scene.
A hundred yards away Grithbrice was standing behind a wide oak tree, clutching his hand and moaning. His shotgun was leaning against the tree trunk beside him. As Bognor watched there was another shot and he saw that it had grazed the side of the tree behind which Grithbrice was sheltering, taking away a large segment of bark. He looked across the clearing to where the shot had come from and saw the figure of a man, with two labradors. He seemed to be shouting, though he was too far away for Bognor to catch the words. As he watched he saw the man take aim again and fire. Again the shot hit Grithbrice’s tree and Bognor saw the marksman break the gun and eject two spent cartridges. He started to run towards Grithbrice, keeping his head down and looking up every so often to see if the man was about to fire again. After about thirty seconds he saw him move forward a few paces and take aim again at the tree. ‘Swine… pimp,’ he heard wafting across the woodland and then a bang and a crash. Bognor just had time to dive behind a bank before he heard a singing whine as shotgun pellets passed close overhead.
Grithbrice was only a few yards away now, and Bognor wondered whether it was worth risking a quick run across to his tree. There was room behind it for two. So far, neither of them had spotted him. He put his head up from behind the concealing bank and pulled it down again as he saw a puff of smoke from the second barrel. A moment later there was another direct hit on the tree and a piece of bark ricocheted off, landing just by Bognor’s elbow. Now was his chance, while the shotgun was being reloaded. He looked up once more, saw that Basil Lydeard, who was close enough now to be recognized quite clearly, was busy putting two more cartridges into the breech, and set off towards the injured Grithbrice. He made it just in time. As he sprawled in the undergrowth behind Grithbrice he heard the Marquess shout in a strangulated voice he recognized from the affair of the Abney interlopers: ‘You haven’t a hope, you yellow-livered little Bolshie. You’re going the same way as the other two scheming bastards. Nobody turns me into a fairground sideshow.’ There was another bang and another piece of oak disappeared. If he went on much longer, thought Bognor, he’d have the tree down.
He slapped Grithbrice on the leg. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘It’s me. What’s up?’
Grithbrice, wearing the most improbable bottle-green velvet plus-fours, turned and saw him for the first time. He was quivering with fear and the blood was flowing steadily from his right arm. ‘Mad,’ he said. ‘He’s trying to kill me.’ Another shot bore testimony to the accuracy of this claim and was followed by ‘Come on out and take it like a man you nigger-loving little pimp. Thought you’d pulled the wool over my eyes did you? You’d have drowned by now if that fat man from the Ministry hadn’t saved you. Coward.’
Bognor crawled alongside Grithbrice and started to tie a handkerchief round his arm. It was a rough-and-ready job but it stopped the worst of the bleeding. Then he took hold of the gun. It was a twelve-bore. ‘I’m a lousy shot,’ he said, ‘but it should be enough to scare him off. Cartridges?’ Grithbrice began to use his good arm to open his breast pocket, while Bognor peered out from behind the tree.
‘Hurry,’ he said. ‘He’s almost reloaded and he’s coming closer.’ Before Bognor could put two cartridges in, Lydeard shot twice more. From the amount of tree he was removing each time it was quite clear that he was getting much too close for safety. And since, it now seemed, he’d tried to murder Bognor too, his safety was as unsure as Grithbrice’s.
Bognor looked apprehensively at the twelve-bore in his hands. He had previously shot only at clay pigeons, never at anything living, and certainly never at people. He would naturally try to miss the Marquess though he couldn’t be sure he would succeed and he had better hurry. ‘Oh, God,’ he said out loud, ‘here goes.’ He stood up, pressed the weapon into his shoulder, pointed it high and peered round the corner of the tree. The Marquess, who was no more than twenty-five yards away, was slowly reloading. He looked purple and his hands appeared to be shaking. Bognor realized that his, too, were quivering more than usual. With great deliberation he took aim at a point some three feet above Lydeard’s head and fired. The explosion knocked him two steps backwards and when he staggered back to see what effect it had had, he saw that Lydeard was standing in the same place with his gun loaded.
‘Bastard,’ shouted the Marquess. ‘And no better shot than your bloody father. Come on out!’
Bognor shrugged, and wondered if he should fire the other barrel. Then he decided to try a touch of the strong arm of the law. Holding the gun at his hip and pointing it at Lydeard he moved out from behind the tree and confronted him.
‘It wasn’t Grithbrice, it was me,’ he said. ‘Now put that gun down before you do anything you regret. This is loaded and I may have to fire. Put your gun down now and I’ll do what I can with the police. But come along now, and for God’s sake be sensible.’
Just for a moment he thought it had worked. Basil Lydeard stood stock still staring at Bognor and his shotgun. His mouth started to open and he seemed on the point of speech. Then, without warning, he dropped his gun, swung round and charged off into the undergrowth, shouting, ‘Help, help, murder.’
‘Bugger,’ said Bognor angrily, and released the remaining barrel in the vague direction of the fleeing peer. It missed by a mile. ‘Come on,’ he shouted at Grithbrice. ‘After him.’
‘Can’t,’ moaned Grithbrice, holding his hand. ‘I’ve been hit. You go.’
Bognor grabbed him by his good arm. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Both of us. I want a witness. Come on. Hurry.’ Together they set off on their pursuit, Bognor spurred on by adrenalin and excitement, half dragging Grithbrice through the wood.
Ahead of them they could hear the Marquess crashing through the foliage, still shouting ‘Help’ and ‘Murder’ for all he was worth. His dogs had fled with him and kept up an incessant baying. Bognor and his injured companion didn’t know the area and Grithbrice, apart from being in a state of shock, had also lost a lot of blood. They floundered along in Lydeard’s wake but it was clear that they were losing ground and they were still well away from the road when they heard a car door slam and the wheeze of an ancient self-starter which quickly gave way to an angry roar, as the Marquess revved the engine of the Lagonda. A second later there was a skidding sound and the car could be heard roaring away down the road in the direction of Crowcombe and Minehead.
‘Hurry,’ screamed Bognor, still heaving Grithbrice through the wood. ‘We must get him.’ Grithbrice responded in an incoherent daze. He was very white but when they got to the Mini they were only a minute or two behind the Lagonda. Bognor strapped them both in and drove off.
‘Hold tight,’ he shouted. ‘I’m not used to this sort of thing. Anything may happen.’ Luckily, he realized, the Lagonda’s superior speed was unlikely to tell as the road was narrow and twisting. Anyone taking these corners at much more than 60 m.p.h. would be in the ditch in no time. He pushed the car to about that speed and started to skid towards Crowcombe. Most of the time he was on the wrong side of the road and more than once they brushed the hedgerow, but apart from a near miss with a tractor the journey into the village was surprisingly uneventful for one made under virtually no control. By the church, he slowed to about 40 m.p.h. and decided to take the turning which led up the hill, over the Quantocks to Nether Stowey.
It was pure intuition and it was a blind corner. He took it at 30 m.p.h. and then applied the brakes as fast as he could, but, alas, too late. He was conscious of the unpleasant crunch of an animal on the radiator grille, also of a horse r
earing immediately in front of him. He swerved, just missed the horse and ended up at right angles across the road.
‘It’s the bloody hunt,’ moaned Grithbrice. Bognor opened his eyes expecting the worst and saw it. A few feet away lay a very dead-looking brown and white hound. Just beside it a figure in hunting pink was staggering about holding his hands to his head, and a little further away a riderless horse was running noisily and dangerously amok. All around more hounds bayed and red-faced horsemen and women waved whips and crops and shouted to one another. As he sat dazed in front of the wheel he saw a boot-faced woman dismount and walk towards them brandishing a riding crop. He didn’t like the way things were moving. The boot-faced matron banged on the window and he rolled it down.
‘I’m the Master here,’ she bawled at him, showing all the fillings in her teeth. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’
‘Have you see a green Lagonda?’
‘I’ll say we have. It was Basil Lydeard and he said he was being chased by two murdering…’ Her already thunderous expression darkened further and for an instant Bognor thought she was about to strike him. ‘By God,’ she shrieked, and turned to address her fellow hunters. ‘By God,’ she screamed again. ‘It’s those bloody poachers after Basil Lydeard. Let’s have them out!’
One or two of the men started to dismount but, before they could, Bognor slipped the clutch in, turned the wheel sharply and put his foot down. He had the momentary but considerable satisfaction of seeing the look of fury on the Master’s face as she was hurled sideways into the ditch, and then he was away, with the Mini screeching in protest as he accelerated up a gradient of one in four.
‘Can a horse go as fast as a car?’ he asked desperately.
‘Across country, yes,’ sighed Grithbrice.
‘Shit,’ said Bognor, as the little car struggled on. Suddenly as they went round the corner, they saw the Lagonda. It was less than half a mile ahead and smoking dangerously.
