Ten Lords A-Leaping

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘Do you know what?’ she said. ‘I admire your tenacity. I admire your intelligence. God help me, I admire your courage. But I would really rather see it employed in making a living and, as your father would put it, bettering yourself, rather than playing Sancho Panza to Jack Troutbeck’s Don Quixote.’

  ‘I would prefer Ellis’ view that I’m Archie Goodwin to her Nero Wolfe.’ He heard an impatient intake of breath and added hastily, ‘I’ll be careful. Honestly. And cross my heart and hope to die, I’ll get a real job when this is over, even if that means going back to the civil service. Is it a deal?’

  ‘There isn’t really another one on offer, is there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘One of the fascinating things about you, Robert, is that you are obliging at times to a point of wimpishness and yet completely stubborn at others. Anyone with a grain of sense would accept the advice to quit now.’

  ‘That’s the package, I’m afraid. I can’t defend it, but it’s how I am.’

  ‘I know. And since I love you as you are, I suppose I don’t want you to change. But you know that periodically I’ll shout at you in the hope that you will.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t really want you to stop being a shrew. It would remove some of the spice from the mixture.’

  ‘What a romantic pair we are.’ She laughed. ‘Right. Now let me read you the letter I’ve just sent to Personnel. I hope it will prove shrewish enough to shake them up a bit.’

  ***

  ‘Have the cops been round?’

  ‘I had a Detective Constable Caudwell waiting for me when I got home last night striving to determine if someone so much wants to murder me that they are prepared to go to all this trouble and expense.’

  ‘What did you tell him? Something inventive, I hope.’ The baroness laughed merrily.

  ‘I don’t want to add to my troubles by being arrested for wasting police time. So I explained that I had no money except for perhaps ten thousand pounds of capital in the flat, and that neither my parents nor my girlfriend was likely to murder me for such a small sum. I did, however, suggest that you might conceivably murder me in order to gain possession of my cat.’

  ‘Did that interest him?’

  ‘He wrote it down so earnestly that I hastily explained that it was a joke, and that if he saw the cat he would understand why. I explained as best I could the nature of the business relationship between you and me and he left, I hope, satisfied. Anyway, since I don’t have a pacemaker, I’m pretty well ruled out of the reckoning.’

  ‘Ah, good. That should confuse them.’

  ‘What? How?’

  There was silence on the line. Clearly, her attention had wandered.

  ‘Jack! What were you talking about?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Have they been to see you?’

  ‘Certainly. Late last night also.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Oh, nothing important,’ she said impatiently. ‘Don’t fuss. Now, about Plutarch. I’m going to have to return her to you for a while.’

  ‘What’s she done?’

  ‘Nothing reprehensible in my book, but what one might call a couple of incidents yesterday in my absence. You remember Greasy Joan?’

  ‘How could I forget? But I thought she’d left you long ago.’

  ‘She came back. We couldn’t refuse her a job, poor old thing. Got her cleaned up a bit and gave her a decent uniform, so she’s a bit less greasy these days. But still a bit prone to hysteria.’

  ‘What brought it on?’

  ‘Since Plutarch refuses to give her side of the story, I can’t be sure, but the gist is—as I followed it through the sobs—that Plutarch’s insistence on wresting from Greasy Joan a capon which she was bearing to High Table caused said Grease to proclaim her possessed by satanic forces. So, since I don’t want a posse of mad incestuous Fen-dwellers arriving to burn her at the stake, with reluctance I’ve decided it’s at present unsafe to leave her at St Martha’s when I’m away so much. Myles, I’m sorry to say, has put his foot down and refuses to give her B & B at his place.’

  ‘What a man! You mean he says no to you?’

  ‘On certain matters, Myles is proof even against the most feminine of my wiles and one such is any question putting his rather fine collection of eighteenth-century glass at the mercy of what I am forced to admit is a tendency to clumsiness on Plutarch’s part.’

  ‘Put her back in the cattery.’

  ‘No, no, we can’t have that. It would upset her. I’ll hand her over tomorrow after lunch. See you in the Peers’ Guest Room at twelve-thirty. Round up Bertie and Sid.’

  ‘You’re not coming up today?’

  ‘Can’t. I’ve a few dragons to slay at the College Council and Jennifer Poulteney’s coming over to lunch. I must cheer the poor child up. She’s very upset about Reggie.’

  ‘You’re not…?’ He couldn’t bring himself to ask the question.

  ‘No, I’m not. You have a dirty mind, Robert.’

  ‘Which is frequently proved to be right.’

  ‘Not this time. My motives are entirely honourable. Besides, she’s an unregenerate heterosexual.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I asked her. Life is too short for shilly-shallying round these topics. You need to know where you stand from the outset. It’s amazing how many people give straight answers if you ask straight questions. Bye.’

  Amiss sank back on to his pillows wondering how he would summon up the energy to get up. What with Caudwell not leaving till midnight, the row with Rachel at three a.m. and the baroness’ breezy wake-up call at seven, he felt exhausted. He fell into a sound and blessedly dreamless sleep and could have cried with frustration when after only a few minutes the telephone rang again.

  ‘Sorry to wake you up so early, son, but I was afraid I might miss you if you had an early interview or anything.’

  ‘That’s all right, Dad. Good to hear you. How are things?’

  ‘Fine, fine. In fact, Mum and I were thinking we might come down to London for a day or two to see you. It’s been a couple of months now.’

  Amiss tried to keep his voice level. ‘That would be lovely, Dad. When were you thinking of?’

  ‘How would this weekend be?’

  ‘Terribly sorry.’ He summoned his scattered wits. ‘Unfortunately I’ve agreed to visit an old university friend in…Devon.’

  ‘What about the weekend after?’

  ‘Not quite sure. Could we make it the one after? I think that’d be safer.’

  ‘Fair enough, son.’ Amiss felt the familiar rush of affection for a father who never stooped to emotional blackmail. ‘We’ll settle on that. Now, how’s the job-hunting going?’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Amiss spent the whole morning in the Lords Library working ferociously hard on briefing notes for the Committee. He had lost all track of time when a hand on his shoulder extracted him from the compilation of a comparative table of hunting legislation throughout the European Union to the reality of the Duke of Stormerod enquiring gently if he could possibly spare the time for a quick pre-prandial drink.

  ‘So sorry to trouble you, my dear fellow, but I couldn’t raise Jack.’ He settled Amiss in a window seat overlooking the Thames and—after the usual courtly badinage—dispatched Violet to get their order.

  ‘Anything I can help with?’

  ‘Perhaps you’d be so kind as to have a word with her. I’m tied up most of the day with a couple of crisis meetings. As you might imagine, a lot of people have got the wind up in no uncertain way.’

  ‘So what did you want me to tell Jack?’

  ‘Just to play it a bit cool if she’s doing any more of her media stuff. Tell her not to be misled just because they’re still holding that Australian chap. All may not be as it seems. Important she doesn’t send out the wrong signals by being triumphalist.’

  ‘What are you worried about?’

  ‘Not absolutely sure they’ve got the ri
ght fellow.’

  ‘Have you heard something?’

  ‘Just had a whiff. Just a whiff. Ah, thank you, Violet. How kind.’ He saluted Amiss with his glass. “Fraid I can’t say any more except that the word—from a source I can’t mention—is that it mightn’t be the chaps on the other side that have done this. Might be something embarrassing for us just round the corner.”

  ‘Really. Like what?’

  ‘Can’t tell you that, old chap. Sorry. Top secret, I’m afraid, at the moment. But just rein Jack in a bit. Stop her jumping to conclusions. Tell her I said pious platitudes rather than war cries are what she should be aiming at.’ And not another salient word could Amiss get out of the old statesman, who—as Amiss reported bitterly to the baroness—was so discreet he could have doubled for a clam with lockjaw.

  ‘Nonsense. He gave you the necessary. You don’t get to be the confidant of all the mighty by being a blabbermouth. Anyway, I’ve registered what he said. If they call on me I’ll rival Brother Francis in sweetness and light and will gently rebuke them if they ask me to make any pre-judgements. Now go off and do something useful. Eavesdrop.’ She was gone before he could enquire about Jennifer’s state of mind.

  ***

  He had no more satisfaction from his conversation with Ellis Pooley, who, obviously constrained by the presence of colleagues, did nothing but promise in response to Amiss’ urgent entreaty to turn up at his flat for something to eat on his way home, whenever that might be. It was 11.00 before he arrived and wolfed down the beef sandwiches that Amiss offered. He even fell gratefully on the claret.

  ‘God, what a day.’

  ‘I hope it was more interesting than mine.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘A lot of the kind of briefing that bored me rigid in the civil service—notes about complicated things rendered simple for idiots, interspersed with fruitless searches for sources of information since the House was mysteriously empty, culminating in drumming my heels all evening in frustration while frantic to know why the Duke of Stormerod should have advised me—insofar as I could understand him—that the murderers may be pro rather than antihunting. What the hell is going on?’

  ‘You’ve got me there. From what Jim said to me before I left tonight, Charlie Friel’s still going hell-for-leather after the activists. Now one more glass of claret, Robert, and I’ll be off.’

  ***

  The baroness looked at her watch. ‘Good God, I’d better be off or I’ll be late for the interview. Bye, Bertie. Bye, Sid. See you tomorrow. Come on, Robert, we have to have the handover ceremony.’

  ‘Handover of what?’

  ‘My cat, Sid. Jack has kindly been playing host to her.’

  ‘Yes, you should meet her. She’s a frolicsome little thing. I’ll miss her. Come on, Robert. Come on. There’s no time to waste.’ She shot out of the bar, down the corridor to the lobby and thence to the cloakroom.

  ‘How’s she been, Mr Hudson?’

  ‘Played merry hell for the first fifteen minutes, your ladyship. Caused a lot of comment. Indeed, Lord Purseglove wanted to let her out, but I prevented him. He kept saying: “Poor little kitty, poor little kitty”. But I told him you had said she can be ferocious when roused and to leave her be.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ The baroness sniffed. ‘Hmm. I think she needs a pretty drastic change of newspaper. Robert, you’d better take her to the loo.’

  ‘Are you mad? If I get her out of the basket, I’ll never get her back in again.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense. You just don’t know how to treat her. All she needs is a bit of coaxing, like any woman. Oh, all right then. If you’re chicken, I suppose I’ll have to do it. The old girl’s too fastidious to be left in this condition to journey across London.’ She snatched Amiss’ newspaper out of his pocket and disappeared off with the basket. Two minutes later she was back with an empty basket.

  ‘Oh no. Please no. You didn’t let her get away?’

  The baroness looked slightly abashed. ‘All would have been fine had it not been for Clarissa Whitney arriving in the loo just as I was on my knees attending to the container. Quite understandably—and she deserves no blame for this—Plutarch thought this was a good moment to take off. When last seen, she was streaking up the staircase. I’m afraid you’re likely to have a lively time getting her back. Sorry I can’t stay and help. Toodlepip.’ Grabbing her coat from her peg, she waved merrily and rushed out.

  Hudson shook his head admiringly. ‘Quite a card, her ladyship.’

  Amiss glowered. ‘I can think of more appropriate descriptions, but I’ll save them for when I see her next.’ Picking up the basket, he wandered hopelessly towards and then up the stairs, down a couple of corridors and into the lobby. Two doorkeepers bore down on him instantly. ‘Is that your cat that’s just invaded the chamber?’ asked the smaller giant.

  ‘No, no. It’s Lady Troutbeck’s. She’s asked me to retrieve it.’

  ‘Her ladyship is going to be in trouble with the Lord Chancellor,’ observed the larger giant with some satisfaction. ‘He didn’t look best pleased when the animal launched itself down the table towards him, jumped on the arm of the woolsack and—of all things—straight into the throne itself.’

  Amiss grimaced. ‘Dear me. I hope this doesn’t make her liable for a public hanging on Tower Hill or anything.’

  ‘Judging by the Lord Chancellor’s face,’ said the smaller giant, ‘it’ll be disembowelling first.’

  ‘Are we speaking of the baroness or the cat?’

  ‘Both.’ He jerked his head. ‘Look.’

  Amiss peered fearfully into the chamber to see that Plutarch in only a few minutes had succeeded where the abseiling lesbians and a mass murderer had failed. Their lordships were actually admitting to each other that something funny was going on. There was little pretence of listening to old Lord Halliday, who was gamely persevering in addressing them on the subject of the royal parks. Instead, the peers were gazing in fascination at Plutarch’s spectacular progress around their sacred surroundings. Leaping on a bench here, clearing a table there, jumping once more on the throne and using the Lord Chancellor’s shoulder as a launching pad, she finally, with a leap over the gate that separated the peers from their guests, whizzed into the lobby in a blur of yellow fur. There was no question of catching her. She was out of the lobby and down the corridor to the right before he could draw breath.

  ‘That’s some cat,’ said the larger giant respectfully.

  ‘The sort of cat you’d expect her ladyship to have,’ observed his colleague.

  ‘How very true,’ said Amiss. ‘Well, I’d better try to find her or her ladyship will be very upset. I could see as she left for her urgent appointment that she was terribly worried.’

  Plutarch was not hard to trail. At every corner there was a stunned onlooker who knew she’d gone left, right, up, or down and within ten minutes Amiss was being waved by his last informant towards the library. As he opened the door a shrill scream confirmed that Plutarch was indeed among those present.

  Amiss peered in cautiously and observed that the dozen or so readers present—like the inhabitants of the chamber—were rapt in fascinated concentration on her progress. The young librarian stood sucking the back of his hand, and not wishing to earn the enmity of someone on whose goodwill he relied, Amiss hastened up to him.

  ‘Has Lady Troutbeck’s cat scratched you, Mr Leadbetter? I’m so sorry.’

  Leadbetter stuck out his hand. ‘Look.’ His voice was quavery. ‘All I did was try to pick her up.’

  It was one of Plutarch’s better scratches. Amiss remembered well from the early days of their acquaintance how painful it could be when one incautiously incurred her displeasure. Murmuring apologetic platitudes, he began to move towards Plutarch, now crouched on a table in the corner weighing up her options. He was only a foot away—and feeling reasonably optimistic—when the door opened, and aiming for the great outdoors, she sprang off the table, vaulted over a horrified, elderly m
an and hurtled between the legs of the incoming Lord Harrington, bringing him crashing to the ground. That Harrington had been one of the most odious ministers under whom Amiss had ever worked provided some compensation for what he knew would be further horrors awaiting him. Delivering a weak smile in the general direction of the audience, and leaving others to pick Harrington up and dust him off, Amiss sidled out of the room.

  Plutarch, it turned out, was sticking to her favourite haunts; she had retraced her flight path almost exactly. When he next caught sight of her she was circumnavigating the lobby, but although still energetic, she seemed to be slowing down. He was watching in the expectation that after three or four more tours he would be able to ambush her, when a well-meaning attempt by the doorkeepers to corral her started her on a stampede back down the corridor, a detour into the bar and then up a staircase.

  As Amiss, cursing, began the climb again, a figure came round the turn of the staircase and Plutarch hit it amidships: cat, man, and suitcase rolled to the bottom of the stairs. Amiss grabbed the winded Plutarch, stuffed her in the basket and strapped her in before he turned his attention to the moaning Brother Francis. Apologies, explanations and sympathy followed, until at last the suffering monk was ready to be helped to his feet. Recollecting himself, Brother Francis said, ‘I trust Pussy is all right? Why was she in such a hurry? Had she been distressed by someone?’

  ‘Not half as distressed as a lot of people have been by her, I can assure you.’

  Brother Francis abruptly lost interest. ‘Where’s my suitcase?’ His battered bag was lying a few feet away. As Amiss picked it up, it opened and out of it fell a large square gilt box. Brother Francis rushed over, picked up the box, grabbed the suitcase, stuffed it inside and took off without another word. Amiss and a protesting Plutarch set off for home.

  ***

  ‘I wish I’d been there.’

  ‘Yes, you’d have enjoyed it. In retrospect, even I would rather not have missed it. By the way, I said she was your cat. You can expect a wigging from the Lord Chancellor.’

  He heard an immense yawn. ‘What? A wigging from Perry Ladislaw? Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t dare.’ She sniggered. ‘We were on the same delegation once in Amsterdam, and he knows that I know what he got up to.