The King's Park Irregulars

by David Wilson

  Abigail folded her arms. ‘There you go then.’

  Alasdair shook his head. ‘No, I’m telling you there’s something fishy about all this. I can’t stand the thought that he might have my slippers and be laughing behind my back. It was bad enough today with his ‘Ooh look, here’s a set of first edition Waverly novels I’ve just acquired.’ He was just trying to rub my nose in it.’

  Emma appeared at the door, ‘Abigail, sorry to disturb you but I’m a little ahead of schedule. Are you ready for dinner now?’

  Abigail nodded. ‘Lovely. I’ll just show Alasdair out and I’ll be with you.’

  Alasdair looked over towards the kitchen door. ‘Something smells nice,’ he said, ‘I’m in no rush you know?’

  ‘Come on Alasdair,’ Abigail gestured him towards the door, ‘you’ve already had more biscuits than you’re supposed to and we’re not feeding you here so that you can go home and get fed there too. I know your game.’ She bundled him towards the door. ‘And don’t start obsessing about Milton Scott and your half-baked theory. I’d be pretty certain that he’s got more important things to worry about than your slippers.’

  Alasdair looked doubtful, but just shrugged and then headed out for home.

  Emma was setting the table when Abigail came back in.

  ‘Just putting the finishing touches to the table Abigail, everything’s ready.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Next morning, Sophie was bustling around the lounge when Alasdair came down for breakfast. He looked around the mess of papers and folders littering the furniture. ‘You were up early this morning Soph, what’s the panic?’

  ‘What do you mean what’s the panic? It’s only three days to go and we’ve got a lot to do. According to my plan of attack, Thursday we’ve got the stage and the marquees going up and then we need to get tables and chairs set up. I take it you’ll be able to lend a hand?’

  He feigned surprise. ‘Me? Surely the committee don’t want me, a simple layman, to be involved with the big event? I didn’t think my input was appreciated.’

  Sophie gave him one of her withering looks. ‘Grow up Alasdair. You know very well it’s all hands on deck now. I told the committee last night we could count on your help as well today since you wouldn’t want to let me down.’ She walked over and put her arms around him, ‘You wouldn’t want to let me down now would you?’

  He smiled. ‘No, you know fine I wouldn’t.’ She kissed him quickly and then started beavering around the various folders on the coffee table.

  ‘Right, if you can meet me at the park at twelve that will let me get the marquee people organised and you can help with the lifting and carrying. We’re a bit short of strong able-bodied men to help us get the chairs and things in place.’

  Alasdair smiled at her. ‘I said I would help, you don’t need to lay it on quite so thick.’

  Sophie laughed. ‘Good. Just wanted to make sure. I’m off now to meet up with some of the committee for a project update. See you later.’ She kissed him again as she flew out of the door with a pile of papers and folders under one arm and her coat flapping about under the other.

  After a breakfast of grapefruit and orange juice which Sophie had laid out for him, and two kippers smeared with garlic butter which Alasdair had secreted at the back of the fridge for himself, he wandered through to his study with the post and opened up a large brown envelope, pulling out a sheaf of leaflets. His attempts at becoming more green hadn’t exactly been powering ahead, although he had tried to be less wasteful, but the information he held in his hands would hopefully be a big help, and with relatively little pain for him to bear. He was just reading over them when the phone rang. He looked over at the clock, only nine thirty, very early for anyone to call he thought, picking up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Alasdair?’ It was Abigail’s voice. ‘I think you had better come and see this. I’m at work if you’re free.’ Alasdair’s curiosity was piqued since Abigail had never made such a call in all their years of knowing one another.

  ‘Abby? Yes, I’ve nothing on this morning until I meet Sophie later. I’ll pop round shortly.’ He hung up the phone, glad to have an excuse to get out of the house, and headed out the door to the library.

  As he arrived, he could see Abigail watching for him from a window and she met him in the entrance foyer. ‘Hello Abby. What’s up?’

  She put a finger to her lips. ‘Shh, not so loud. I’ve got something to show you in here.’ She led him through to the lending library and around the desk, where a pile of newspapers were stacked on the counter. A few people browsed around the shelves of books and if any of them were to be watching, of which none of them were, they would think that some great conspiracy was being hatched with the low timbre of Abigail’s voice (the truth being that if you work in the place long enough then hushed becomes your normal speaking volume). She picked up a paper from the pile and laid it on the counter in front of them. ‘I was going through these newspapers from last week which we had to archive for the reference library upstairs and since we’re quiet I was just having a quick flick through some of them, you know to catch up on any news.’ She glanced at Alasdair, who looked blankly at the paper.

  ‘I don’t get it Abby, what’s so special about this one?’

  ‘Look!’ she rifled through the pages and then laid it down again. ‘It’s probably nothing but I thought it was quite a coincidence with what you said yesterday.’ Alasdair glanced over the page at the story Abigail was talking about.

  Nineteenth Century first edition books stolen

  A collection of unique books by Sir Walter Scott were stolen from a farmhouse near Elgin earlier this week. The items, a set of twenty-four ‘Waverly’ 1842 edition books were reported missing from a private collection after a burglary at the house. Police have no leads at the moment but their enquiries are continuing. Grampian Police are investigating the incident which is believed to have happened between 7.30 p.m. and 9.00 p.m. last Wednesday. A spokesman commented, ‘The items stolen are very rare and valuable and I would ask the public that if they are offered these books for sale to contact police as soon as possible.’

  Alasdair’s mouth fell open as he read the article again. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘He’s got his crooked scheme going all over the country! It must be him, he told me he had just acquired a set of these books. Just acquired – and look at this!’ Abigail ushered him out into the foyer again as people were starting to look over.

  ‘Now you don’t know that. You can’t tell me that the set of books that Milton Scott has are the same as these ones. There must be a good few sets of these first editions around I expect.’

  Alasdair was shaking his head. ‘No, I think we’re onto something. The trouble is I doubt if the police will believe me, I mean it’s not exactly evidence is it?’ He paced around, clearly agitated by this new piece of information.

  ‘Alasdair,’ Abigail said, ‘I have to get back to work. Perhaps we can discuss this later?’ He didn’t seem to hear. ‘Alasdair?’

  He stopped suddenly. ‘Sorry Abby, I need to go. You should get back to work too. Talk later.’ He rushed out of the door and into the street, turning right towards the town.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Alasdair walked through the town, going nowhere in particular but his mind buzzing with the possibility that Milton Scott had been behind not only his burglary but others into the bargain. He walked down past the Burgh, and then into the Marches just to have somewhere to walk around and try to think. At the last of the shops he turned around to go back again and as he did so, found himself outside the bookshop. ‘Where do you learn anything if not from a teacher?’ he thought, as he went into the bookshop. It was after only a few minutes of browsing that he found the very thing, and took it down from the shelf to buy it immediately.

  Sophie was standing next to the Victorian drinking fountain in the King’s Park, holding a clipboard and counting up the chairs which stood in stacks along the tarmac road l
eading to the large grassy area on which the marquees now stood. She saw Alasdair hurrying through the gate towards her. ‘Sorry I’m a little late, got held up in town. You’ll never believe …’

  She cut him off mid-sentence. ‘Yes, I’m sure you’ve got a good excuse, as always! But I’ve got a bit of a problem here and I need you to start lifting chairs into the marquees and setting them up at the tables. The tent people were late which meant the marquees weren’t up by the time the chairs were delivered; the chair people couldn’t wait for the tent people. I really could do without this.’

  Alasdair looked at the huge pile of chairs. ‘I can’t lift all of these by myself.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to lift them all by yourself. But maybe you could make a start since those of us that have been here for the last hour are rather exhausted having carried the tables into the tents.’

  ‘Ah, OK.’ He picked up a small pile of chairs and carried them off into the furthest-away marquee, grumbling as he did so. ‘This isn’t going to help my back you know,’ he shouted over his shoulder, but Sophie was too busy to hear. The next three hours were spent lifting, carrying and positioning chairs around the tables in the large tents. Standing back once it was all done, Alasdair had to admit that the set-up was rather good, and once the finishing touches and decorations were put up tomorrow it would look even better.

  Sophie smiled at him. ‘Thank you for helping, it’s been an all hands on deck sort of day today. Are you OK?’ Alasdair had been sitting down and on trying to stand when Sophie came over, he couldn’t quite get himself completely vertical.

  ‘I think my back has gone, I can’t stand up straight.’

  Sophie rubbed his lower back vigorously. ‘Poor thing, you’ve worked really hard. Let’s get you home and into a hot bath and then some of your old dad’s homemade liniment should sort you out.’

  Abigail was placing books back into the shelves, wondering why it was that browsers couldn’t put a book back into the same space in which they found it. It’s not rocket science, she thought as she shuffled books around, if you can read you must have at least some grasp of the alphabet. Valerie Stewart, Abigail’s colleague, sidled up beside her, ‘You’ve got a phone call. I think it’s that man who was in here earlier, a Mr Mills? He did say he was sorry to bother you but it’s urgent and he knows you don’t really have anything to do in a library that can’t wait.’

  ‘That sounds like Alasdair,’ Abigail said as she went over to the desk to pick up the phone. ‘Hello?’ A loud voice echoed down the receiver.

  ‘Abby! I think I’ve had an epiphany! Can you meet me later to help with something?’

  ‘What sort of thing? Where are you anyway, there’s a bad echo?’

  ‘I’m lying on the bathroom floor, my back’s gone again. Sophie rubbed some of the family liniment into it and I wanted to lie on a hard surface to see if it would help. Well, plus Sophie won’t let me into the rest of the house with this stuff on because she says it’ll strip the wallpaper.’ Abigail knew exactly what Sophie meant. The Mills family liniment was a foul-smelling concoction which had been passed down the generations in Alasdair’s family. Reputedly a mixture first used by great-great-grandfather Mills in the Boer War, it contained no less than nine ingredients, which were difficult to identify but all highly odourous. Abigail had been given a small coloured bottle of it once when she hurt her back gardening, and after applying it had gone for a lie down on her bed to let it work its magic. To be fair to the stuff, it had helped her back, but it had also taken the colour out of the bedspread, leaving an imprint of her body as if it were the Turin Shroud. Abigail had asked then what on earth was in it but Alasdair said he was sworn to secrecy and, in fact, the Coca-Cola company had once contacted his grandfather to ask his advice on how to keep a recipe secret.

  Abigail sat down at the desk. ‘What is it you want me to help you with?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been doing some research after a trip to the bookshop and I have a plan. But I need your help to pull it off. Let me explain …’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Emma walked into the kitchen of The Pudding Furnace to find her new boss, Alec McAllister, with his head in the oven. ‘Hi Alec, are things that bad?’ He pulled his head out and sat on the floor, looking at her.

  ‘Ha ha, if only you were as good an electrician as a comedian. Then again …’ he gave a wry smile as he looked back around and into the oven. ‘It seems to be something to do with the fan; it’s not moving at all when the oven’s on.’

  ‘Why don’t you call the company who supplied it to you. You must have some sort of warranty with it, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve already called them but they can’t come until tomorrow. I thought I might be able to fix it before then, but looks like I can’t. I should have gone for a barbecue restaurant, that would have been easier.’ He hauled himself up and threw the spanner he was holding into a toolbox. ‘So, ready for some work?’

  She nodded. ‘I am, I’m keen to get started. What do we have to do today?’ Alec pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it and showed her the list of things to be done.

  ‘Take your pick from any one of these and make a start. Just give me a shout if you need any help.’ Emma scanned the list and decided it would be good to go for something important first to show she could do the job, and with that she went through to the restaurant and sat down with the laptop to try to design the menu layout. The dishes on the menu looked wonderful and as she was setting them down, choosing fonts, and laying them out on the page, she found she was enjoying herself. Apart from the occasional clanging from the kitchen, usually followed by a yell of some description, she had a most pleasant afternoon.

  At around five o’clock Alec came through from the kitchen and looked over her shoulder. ‘That’s pretty good,’ he said, ‘if we’ve got an oven to cook those dishes then we’re definitely in business.’

  ‘It’ll be fine. I’m finding that even when things look bleak you find that they can work out quite well.’

  Alec sat down at the next table. ‘It’s good to have someone else here to talk to about things, makes it a bit easier. I hadn’t realised what a big job this was going to be – I should have hired someone sooner to help me. So what is it that you’ve found so bad and it’s worked out?’ Emma looked a bit uneasy at the question and Alec backtracked. ‘Sorry, none of my business. I’m used to knowing quite a lot about the people I work with. There were few secrets in the steelworks, or in the kitchens either come to that. The goings on some people get up to would make you cringe at times.’

  Emma nodded. ‘Tell me about it.’ She pointed to the screen. ‘I’ve finished this so I can start on something else.’

  Alec shook his head. ‘Nah, that’ll do us for today. I’m taking an awfy scunnering to this now. I could do with a break. You get off home and we’ll make a start again tomorrow.’ Emma got her coat on and let herself out as Alec was switching off the lights.

  ‘OK, see you tomorrow Alec.’

  ‘Aye, see you.’

  As they both went their separate ways from the restaurant, further down the hill Emma’s now estranged husband, John, watched with anger as she disappeared out of sight.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Abigail occasionally pondered on her friendship with Alasdair and, particularly at times like this, she couldn’t quite figure it out. Yes, Alasdair and her husband had been business partners and had played the odd round of golf, but it was really since Arthur had died that Alasdair had made a bigger effort to get to know her. There was nothing improper about the whole thing, goodness knows they were both too old and too settled for that sort of thing and Alasdair was devoted to Sophie. But she thought, at heart, it might be that Alasdair had seen something in her that he thought she was as eccentric as him and it had meant a new colleague to bounce his mad ideas off. Abigail would normally have dismissed such a thought, since she would argue the point if anyone had told her they thought she was an eccentri
c, but at this precise moment it would have been a tough argument to win.

  Abigail was parked outside Alasdair’s house, the engine of the mobile library van idling over loudly as she watched for the front door to open and Alasdair to appear, which he duly did. His face lit up as he saw her and he waved excitedly. ‘Abby, you’re a star!’ He raced down the front path and opened the passenger door. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to get it but it looks exactly the part.’ He climbed in and saw Abigail glowering at him. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘What’s up? I must have gone mad to agree to this. Explain to me again how this is going to work?’ Alasdair closed the door and pulled his seatbelt across.

  ‘It’s quite simple, Abby, we’re on a surveillance mission. I was out walking this afternoon and wandered into the bookshop in town and all of a sudden it became clear.’ He pulled a book out of the backpack he was carrying and handed it to Abigail.

  She looked at the book and then back at Alasdair. ‘The Private Detective’s Handbook – you’re not serious are you?’

  Alisdair smiled broadly. ‘It makes perfect sense. The police aren’t giving this the attention it deserves and they probably don’t have the manpower to dedicate to solving it, so we’re going to take up the challenge! I don’t know why I didn’t think of this rightaway; we could crack this and put the perp behind bars quite quickly I feel.’

  Abigail raised her eyebrows. ‘The perp?’

  Alasdair pointed to the book. ‘There’s a glossary at the back of the book; I’ve been brushing up on my detecting parlance.’

  Abigail gave the book a quick flick and then looked back at him. ‘I assume therefore that this is the reason for your outfit too?’ Alasdair was dressed in black trousers, a black shirt and a brown overcoat with the collar turned up. A wide-brimmed hat completed the ensemble. One thing was certain; when he took up an interest he embraced it wholly and without hesitation.