by Simon Brett
‘So I’m relying on you to treat the whole affair with all the sensitivity of which you are capable.’
‘Oh, I’ll certainly do that, Your Grace.’ This was an easy promise to make. The amount of sensitivity of which Chief Inspector Trumbull was capable corresponded pretty well with that of a rhinoceros who’d woken up with a hangover and then sat on a hornets’ nest.
‘There will have to be an enquiry, will there?’ Her words took the form of something she had learnt about in Latin lessons at school but long forgotten: ‘a question expecting the answer no’.
Sadly, Chief Inspector Trumbull was unable to oblige. ‘I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’m afraid the Chief Constable will insist on an enquiry.’
‘Oh,’ the Dowager Duchess mused. Needless to say, she had known the Chief Constable from birth. ‘Bertie Anstruther . . . Maybe I should have a word with him . . .?’
‘I’m afraid, until I receive orders to the contrary, Your Grace, I will be compelled to investigate this murder.’
‘How tiresome. Still, if you have to . . .’
‘May I ask, Your Grace, whether the fact of the . . . incident is already known to your guests?’
‘Good Lord, no! I hope not. That wouldn’t be much of a recommendation for Tawcester Towers hospitality, would it? Blotto and Twinks know, obviously.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘My son and daughter.’
‘Ah.’
‘And a couple of the domestics . . . butler and one of the housemaids. Apart from that, no one.’
‘Except for one person,’ the Chief Inspector announced weightily.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The murderer, Your Grace. The individual who committed the atrocity.’
‘Good Lord, are you suggesting it was done by somebody in the house?’
‘Geographical considerations alone would make that a likely possibility.’
‘Hm.’ The concept that the murder had required not only a victim but also a perpetrator had not occurred before to the Dowager Duchess. It was a double inconvenience. Then she saw a glimmer of reassurance in the gloom. ‘But the murderer is not likely to tell anyone what he has done, is he?’
‘Extremely unlikely, Your Grace.’
‘Oh well, that’s all right then. No social embarrassment there. Now, Trumbull, my guests are at dinner. I must join them very quickly. I am their hostess, after all.’ She looked up at the ormolu clock on the carved mantelpiece. ‘They will be on their fish course by now. I’m relying on you to have the whole thing cleared up before the ladies withdraw.’
‘The whole thing?’
‘Yes, your investigation. I want that done – and I want the body off the premises before the gentlemen go off to the billiard room.’
‘But, Your Grace, that’s not much more than half an hour away.’
‘A lot can be achieved in half an hour. The conception of most children takes a considerably shorter time.’ A very much shorter time when it had had anything to do with her, the Dowager Duchess recollected with distaste.
‘Your Grace, it will be necessary for the purposes of my investigation for me to speak to your guests.’
‘Speak to my guests? I am sorry, Chief Inspector, but you are not the kind of person to whom they are used to speaking.’
‘Maybe not, Your Grace, but –’
‘They include ex-King Sigismund of Mitteleuropia. Is he the kind of person whom you and Mrs Trumbull meet in your customary social round?’
‘No, we do not.’
‘Then why should you suddenly expect all the rules of society to be broken for you to be introduced to him?’
‘A murder has been committed, Your Grace.’
‘We don’t know that. A person has died – that’s all we know. There are many unfortunate circumstances that can cause people to die.’
‘Yes, but, Your Grace –’
‘I require your investigation – and the removal of the body – to be completed within the next half-hour, before the ladies withdraw and the gentlemen retire to the billiard room and the smoking room. Are you telling me it can’t be done, Trumbull?’
The proper answer dallied on the edge of the Chief Inspector’s lips. Distantly, from the earliest moment of his training, he remembered being told the duties of a policeman. Nobody was above the law. Investigations must all be carried out with the same punctilious and even-handed attention to detail, regardless of the status of the people involved. A policeman had to be incorruptible, concerned only with solving every crime with which he was presented.
‘Very well, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘Half an hour it is.’
There was a Sergeant with whom Chief Inspector Trumbull always worked, and the law of averages might have dictated that this person should be more intelligent than his superior. This, however, was not the case. Sergeant Knatchbull was, if such a concept is possible, even less well intellectually endowed.
Their examination of the scene of crime did not therefore yield many startling insights, though there was a striking unanimity in their views of the situation. The man lying on the library floor was undoubtedly dead. Neither policeman questioned that. And from the expression on his face, both agreed that he had not departed this life in a relaxed and voluntary manner.
But beyond that . . . ‘A case for the experts,’ concluded Chief Inspector Trumbull, showing fitting self-knowledge by not including himself in that category. He shrugged, not over-confident even of the skills of the ‘experts’ when they did come to examine the body. He had been through the same manoeuvres so many times before on other cases. Now, as he approached retirement, an innate laziness in him wanted to shorten the process. Why couldn’t the whole business be speeded up? Why did he have to go through all the tedious preliminaries of investigating the case himself? Why couldn’t a polymathic amateur sleuth arrive straight away and solve the thing?
Their cursory scene-of-crime examination completed, Chief Inspector Trumbull and Sergeant Knatchbull, with the help of Grimshaw, smuggled the body out of Tawcester Towers wrapped in a Turkish carpet. They used the backstairs, confident they would not be seen at that time of the evening. It was not until later that the bolder and more inebriated male guests might enter that area in search of acquiescent chambermaids.
By the time dinner had ended, and the gentlemen adjourned to the billiard and smoking rooms, the body of Captain Schtoltz was already in the dicky of Chief Inspector Trumbull’s car, joggling its way to Tawsworthy police station.
Lady Honoria Lyminster was quite a girl. Not only did she sometimes smoke cigarettes, she also actually had one of those new-fangled electric kettles in her bedroom and often made hot drinks without the intervention of either a cook or housemaid. It was thanks to her kettle that she and Blotto were sipping cocoa that evening. Twinks looked at her brother appraisingly. ‘Well, you certainly seem to have hit the bull’s-eye with ex-Princess Ethelinde.’
‘What? Who’re you talking about?’
‘Ex-Princess Ethelinde. You know, Blotto. There’s only one ex-Princess Ethelinde staying here. And she’s as pretty as a cream tea with extra dollops of cream. Come on, you must’ve noticed. Ex-King Sigismund’s daughter.’
‘Oh, her.’
‘She was eyeing you all evening like a cat over a goldfish bowl. She certainly thinks you’re the crystallized ginger.’
‘Don’t be a Grade A poodle, Twinks. Why would a breathsapper of a girl like that be interested in a prize chump like me?’
‘Because you’re dashed attractive – and a good bloke with it.’
‘Oh, biscuits,’ said Blotto, embarrassment spreading redly upwards from his wing collar.
‘You’re never going to find a bride if you can’t spot the ones who’re interested in you.’
‘Well, I’m not sure that that matters so frightfully much. There are lots of things a chap can do in life without finding brides. Cricket and hunting and . . . well . . . adventures. In fact, from what I see, a lot of fellows
would be much better off without brides. I mean, some of the boddos I used to be at school with have actually married Americans.’
Twinks let out a tinkling laugh. ‘Well, at least nobody in our family has ever been reduced to that.’
‘No, but in many ways I’m not sure that Loofah’s done much better.’
Twinks couldn’t argue about that. Their elder brother had drawn a bit of a short straw in the matrimonial stakes. (Not that the straw he had drawn was actually short. Sloggo, the new Duchess, towered over her chubby husband, and had limbs of such length that people suspected they had to be wound round something overnight, like a garden hose.) But Loofah – or to give him his proper name, Rupert Lyminster, Duke of Tawcester – had had no choice. The ducal line had to be continued and, much though he would have preferred to do it by some different method – any different method – there was no way of producing heirs that didn’t involve marriage.
Of course Loofah hadn’t had much of a say in his choice of bride. His mother had taken that on, as she did so many tasks at Tawcester Towers. And the Dowager Duchess knew that the purity of her daughter-in-law’s breeding was much more important than such trifles as a pleasant personality or physical attractiveness. So she had selected Sloggo – known to readers of Debrett’s as Lady Winifred Coules-Quick, eldest daughter of the Duke of Pargetshire – and a high society wedding was decreed.
The reports of that event in the Court Circular were appropriately decorous. Nowhere in their descriptions of the bride were the words ‘maypole’, ‘clothesprop’ or ‘stick insect’ used. Neither did anyone mention the Duke’s nickname – not so exotic as ‘Black Rupert’ or ‘Rupert the Fiend’, but at least accurate – of ‘Rupert the Fat’. Nor were the couple referred to in the press – as they had been by their less generous friends – as ‘the bat and ball’.
Their union had proved to be efficient, in that it had so far produced two children. Both girls, though. This was a source of considerable aggravation to Loofah, because the continuing lack of a male heir meant he had to do it all over again.
‘Anyway, Blotto me old gumdrop, don’t let’s talk about brides. Mummy’ll sort one of those out for you when she thinks the time is right. Let’s talk about something more interesting.’
‘Anything’s more interesting than marriage.’
‘Yes, and this is really interesting. Another “M”. Not “marriage”, but “murder”.’
Her brother looked blank for a moment, before recollection came to him. ‘You mean the foreign pineapple in the library?’
‘I certainly do.’
‘Well, old Trumbull’s come and had a shufti at him, so I suppose things are proceeding in their own sweet way.’
‘What absolute guff! You know Trumbull’s useless. He needs help to lick the butter off a crumpet. There’s not a dabchick’s chance in a foxhole that he’s going to solve this crime. No, as usual, you and I are going to have to do it, Blotto.’
‘Oh. But where do we start? The body’s not even on the premises any more.’
‘I know. But before Trumbull and his boneheaded assistant arrived, remember you got me my camera . . .?’
‘Oh yes, so I did.’
‘And I undertook a very quick but thorough examination of the scene of crime.’
Blotto was impressed. If his sister had focused the beam of her massive intellect on it, then the case was as good as solved. ‘So who did it, Twinks?’
‘I’m not quite there yet, old trouser button. But I did pick up a couple of pointers.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, for a start, the late lamented wasn’t murdered in the library.’
‘Ah, you mean it was suicide . . . or some sort of ghastly accident gone wrong?’
‘No,’ Twinks replied patiently. ‘I mean that he wasn’t murdered in the library.’
Clouds gathered on Blotto’s brow. Then miraculously they cleared. Sunshine broke through in a large beam. ‘You mean he was stubbed out somewhere else and then his mortals were moved into the library?’
‘Exactly that.’
‘But how do you know?’
‘Simple. I’d show you on a photograph, but it’s still developing in that walk-in wardrobe I use as a darkroom. But what it shows is that Captain Schtoltz’s dinner jacket had been pulled up high around his neck, suggesting someone had lifted him under the armpits. Then, though there was still some warmth in the body, there was none on the area of library carpet on which it lay, which would imply he had been moved into that position quite recently. There were also scuff-marks on the carpet where his heels had dragged on the floor. Having taken a measurement of his shoes and estimated his body weight, I’m pretty sure from the angle of those indentations that Captain Schtoltz was placed in position by someone of well over average height.’
‘Crikey, Twinks. I can never work out how all that brain fits into your dainty little cranium.’
She shrugged. ‘Just a matter of logic. Keep your eyes wide open, Blotto, and eventually you’ll see the relevant information.’
He sighed. He knew he could keep his eyes open as wide as they went and still not see the relevant information until it bit him on the leg. ‘So what do we do – look for the tallest man in the ex-King’s entourage and get Trumbull to arrest him?’
‘It may not be quite that simple, Blotto. But looking for a tall man could be a good starting-point.’
‘Righty-ho then.’ Blotto was silent for a moment, then a modest gleam of energy flickered in his eye.
Twinks recognized the symptoms. Her brother had just had an idea. ‘What is it?’
‘I was just thinking . . .’ he began slowly.
‘Yes?’
‘Most of the house guests will be asleep by now . . .’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘. . . so it might be the perfect time to find our tall man.’
‘Sorry Not with you, Blotto?’
‘Well, while they’re asleep, they won’t notice me creeping into their bedrooms . . .’ He glowed with enthusiasm, as he always did when spelling out one of his ideas. ‘And then when I’m in the bedrooms . . . I can look out and see which ones’ feet stick out over the end of the bed . . .’
‘Ye-es.’
‘. . . so we’ll know which ones are tall.’
Her brother looked so pleased at having reached this logical conclusion that Twinks didn’t want to puncture his confidence. ‘Good idea,’ she said, and he glowed like a four-bar electric fire. ‘But,’ she continued gently, ‘don’t you think it might be simpler to wait till tomorrow morning, when all the house guests will be standing up?’
‘What would be the advantage of that?’ asked Blotto, confused.
‘Well, when they’re standing up, we’ll be able to see which ones are tall.’
He didn’t enjoy having his good idea rejected. ‘That would be another way of doing it,’ he conceded. ‘Why, what are they all going to be doing tomorrow?’
‘Hunting.’
‘Ah.’ The customary smile was reinstated on Blotto’s handsome features. Now they were talking about something he understood.
3
A-Hunting We Will Go!
It was one of those autumn days that made one feel even sorrier for people who hadn’t had the good luck to be born in England. The low morning sun peeked through the trees of the Tawcester Towers estate like a debutante at her first ball waiting to be asked to dance. The leaves on the ancestral oaks flashed russet and gold. Gleefully beyond the ha-ha hares scampered, their white scuts held arrogantly high. Pheasants too strutted across the grounds, imperious in their immunity. Nothing which was about to happen was their problem. Today the foxes were going to get it.
Blotto breathed in the crisp air of his native country and his lungs expanded with satisfaction. His black hunter Mephistopheles felt firm between his thighs, and little tremors of excitement communicated themselves between horse and man. Blotto listened to the distant burble of the countryside and the closer soun
ds of hooves stamping, hounds baying and members of his own class honking. His eyes took in the red of the huntsmen’s coats, the contrasting black of Grimshaw and his staff serving the stirrup cups, and his heart swelled with pride. This was England at its most glorious. This was a scene that would last for ever. There would never be anyone so unpatriotic or humourless – or common – as to put an end to hunting.
He looked over to the main steps that led up to the columned portico of Tawcester Towers. His mother stood there, unwillingly relying on the support of a stick. During the previous hunting season her horse Caligula had refused at a particularly high fence and catapulted his aristocratic cargo over it. The resulting broken hip had not yet fully mended, and the Dowager Duchess’s quack had had the temerity to say she was not yet ready to ride to hounds again. Her instinct had been to ignore the common little man’s advice, and only the combined and forceful arguments of Loofah, Twinks and Blotto had dissuaded her. But she was determined to knit her fractured bones back together as soon as possible by sheer willpower. It wouldn’t be long before she’d be back in the saddle. There were still foxes out there that had her name on them.
She looked with undisguised contempt at the woman standing beside her. Ex-King Sigismund’s ex-Queen Klara had no physical excuse for not getting up on a horse. She just didn’t enjoy hunting. Worse, she had been heard to declare that she thought it unladylike.
The Dowager Duchess had no time for such pusillanimity. Through narrowed eyes she contemplated her unwanted companion for the day. Ex-Queen Klara was not a thing of beauty. Her daughter’s good looks clearly came from ex-King Sigismund’s side of the family, and indeed ex-Princess Ethelinde’s conception must have required a considerable effort of will on his part. Nor was the fact that the ex-Princess had no siblings much of a surprise. Ex-Queen Klara was no doubt an admirable woman in many ways, but certainly not in the way that might make men fall in love with her. She didn’t have come-to-bed eyes; they were at best let-me-tuck-you-up eyes. And in her construction, the Almighty had not stinted on materials. Indeed, in the event of anarchists throwing bombs, there was no woman one would rather have between oneself and the explosion. Which, given the volatile state of Mitteleuropian politics, was maybe, from her husband’s point of view, a large part of ex-Queen Klara’s attraction.
