‘Well, I suppose I’d better, old thing, if those stories about my father were as hair-raising as you seem to think they are. Anyway, these people are our friends, and we don’t want their reputations to go down the plug-hole just because old Popeye fancied making a bob or two, do we?’
‘He never really fitted in, did he? I mean, Porky didn’t marry until she was absolutely the last thing left on the shelf, and she didn’t exactly do herself proud. He was only a captain, and then insisted that he use the rank socially. I rather thought, at the time, that that was a bit beyond the pale.’
‘Me too, Manda! He’s not what my papa would have called a pukkah sahib. There’s definitely a whiff of the common about him, and I, for one, was never comfortable in his company. He always seemed to be trying to worm information out of one, about one’s finances and connections. Definitely not cricket, if you ask me!’
‘And he wormed his way into invitations to things to which nobody would normally have dreamed of inviting him. Dolly Pargeter got waylaid by him at some cocktail party or other, she was telling me in the spring, when she suddenly realised he’d smarmed her into inviting him to her spring ball. That wouldn’t have been so bad, but when he did turn up, he wasn’t wearing white tie, as had been specified, and then he tried to borrow fifty quid from the butler.’
‘Shocking! How did Porky put up with him?’ barked Hugo, getting quite het-up about these reports of insupportable behaviour on the part of the corpse, then added, ‘I suppose we’re acting like insufferable snobs, discussing him like this.’
‘That’s why people like us were put on this earth, Hugo: to be superior. Porky, though, never was a very bright old thing, I suppose. As long as he kept the compliments flowing, she probably just turned a blind eye to his social indiscretions and faux pas, glad to have a man on her arm at long last.’
‘So how are we going to go about our investigation, Manda? Have you had any bright ideas?’ Hugo wasn’t great in the bright ideas department, and usually left all that to someone else with a quicker intellect than his.
‘It’s so obvious, it’s staring us right in the face, Chummy, old stick,’ she declared, bounding upright and beginning to pace the room, lost in thought, as the plan developed in her brain.
‘It might be to you, but I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest idea what it is you plan to do.’
‘We visit them all, one by one, and do as much subtle questioning as we can. We never did get to the bit about feedback from my tour, and I think I’ve a right, having fed them a top-notch afternoon tea, to expect something back in repayment. We’ll just call round like I threatened to do, and do some pumping, while we’re finding out how they enjoyed their time here.’
‘Do you really think we’ll get anywhere? If that book of Popeye’s is full of stuff that they’ve been keeping quiet, surely a little discreet questioning isn’t going to get them to spill their guts to us?’
‘Oh, Hugo, how you are getting into the role! But you’re perfectly right. You and I are a good team, but we mustn’t forget that we have two other members on our strength. I’m going to send Enid undercover again, and I think I have a role for Beauchamp as well. And don’t forget, they’re much more likely to confide in us than they would have been to tell all to old Popeye.’
‘If they want to have anything to do with it, considering what happened during their tour.’ Hugo was highly dubious about their consent to participate in a little feedback session.
It was nearly midnight at the end of a very long Boxing Day, and as Hugo and Lady A sat in the drawing room where Enid had finally joined them, Beauchamp came in with four cocktails on a silver tray, although there were five glasses. He had deemed it socially acceptable that he join in the final discussion of the day, as he had been responsible for so much of its content, murder excepted.
Hugo had his game leg up on a footstool, so that he could rest the knee that had been giving him so much trouble over the last few weeks. Enid was just finishing off her tale of what she had seen and heard that day.
‘Ah, Beauchamp, splendid! Just pop the tray on the credenza for a moment will you? I’ve been waiting for all four of us to be together, for I have something to ask both of you. Hugo and I have been discussing what to do about today’s unfortunate event, and have decided that it is our social and moral duty to investigate.
‘Both of you were involved in our last investigation, and I would like to ask if I may count on your support for a second outing of the Famous Four? What about it, eh?’
‘Will I have to be undercover again, a spy, like last time?’ asked Enid.
‘Will you be putting yourself in physical danger again, my lady?’ asked Beauchamp.
‘Hmm. How shall I put this? Yes to your question, Enid, and probably, to yours, Beauchamp.
‘Yes, please,’ squeaked Enid Tweedie, her eyes sparkling at the thought of her life being elevated above the humdrum for a second time.
‘Provided we can miss out the bit where I get knocked on the head and tied to a chair, with sticky tape across my mouth, you can count me in, too,’ agreed Beauchamp, in his haughtiest voice.
‘Bungo-ho!’ cried Hugo, unable to believe that they wanted to play private detectives again with Lady Amanda, and clapped his hands in his enthusiasm.
‘So, what drinks have you brought us, to end such an unexpectedly eventful day, Beauchamp?’
The manservant retrieved his tray and, starting with Lady Amanda, began to offload his cargo of colourful glasses. ‘A White Christmas for you, my lady: a Wobbly Knee again, for Mr Hugo: and for Mrs Tweedie …’
‘Do call me Enid.’
‘How kind. Thank you. For Enid, a Waste of Time – you get two glasses with this, my dear, and their contents might explain the cocktail’s name; and a Hopeless Case, for myself.’
‘Are you being facetious, Beauchamp?’ asked Lady Amanda, as the last two drinks were named and distributed.
‘I wouldn’t know how to, my lady,’ he replied, with the ghost of a twinkle in his eye.
‘Before draining her glass in one swallow, Lady Amanda held it aloft and proposed a toast. ‘To the Belchester Towers Irregulars! And bugger Baker Street!’
‘And then I really must be off, if you would be so kind as to allow Beauchamp to escort me home in the Rolls,’ added Enid, totally pricking the balloon of Lady A’s mood, with her down-to-earth practicality.
Chapter Twelve
The Belchester Towers Irregulars Strut their
Funky Stuff
Hugo awoke at nine o’clock the next morning, because the sound of a human voice, apparently in endless monologue, had insinuated itself into his dream and was drowning out what Carmen Miranda had been trying to whisper in his ear. He would have been quite happy to let things be, but her mangoes were bobbing about on his head to a tango rhythm, and he yielded, eventually, to the inevitable separation from such a lovely scenario, and woke up.
The voice, however, continued, and proved to be coming from the hall, where Lady Amanda was just coming to the end of a telephone marathon in pursuit of the naked truth (and some feedback on her tour).
Pulling on his comfy old dressing gown and stepping into his slippers, he went out into the corridor and walked down to where the instrument lived, only to find her in the action of hanging up for the final time. ‘Whatever have you been doing?’ he asked, still chagrined about his loss of Carmen Miranda, even if she had assaulted him with her mangoes, ‘Filling in for the speaking clock?’ His white hair stood up in stiff meringue peaks, and his unshaven face gave him a slightly sleazy look that Carmen Miranda would probably have loved.
‘I’ve been arranging our covert interrogations,’ she answered brightly, as if she had been up for hours, which she had, but had not dared to use the instrument until eight o’clock when, even if the object of her call was still dead to the world, a member of staff would be available to note down the time of her visit, and her excuse for paying a call – spurious now of course, as there was
something much more enticing afoot.
‘I’ve spoken to Dr Andrew, in the strictest confidence, of course, and he confirmed exactly what I hoped he might: that Porky shouldn’t be left alone at the moment, because of the shock she has suffered. I, of course, offered Enid as a live-in nurse for her, until she is feeling herself again, at no cost whatsoever to Porky, as a sort of apology for her husband being murdered under my roof.
‘I left him to put the proposal to her, giving him my permission to say that it was all his idea, and then phoned Enid to get her ready to go to work.’
‘But I thought she had a live-in maid.’
‘Gone to daily, I’m afraid, and refuses to stay overnight any more.’
‘How you do wrap people around your little finger. I simply don’t know how you do it. Is it because you charm them? Because they’re terrified of you? Or are you really a witch?’
‘Don’t be silly, Hugo. It’s because they trust and respect me. Now, where was I? Oh, yes: I’ve made appointments for one of us to call at some of the households, to talk to them about yesterday, including Porky’s.’
‘Hey, that’s a bit like asking Mrs Lincoln how, apart from the assassination of her husband, she enjoyed the play!’ Hugo looked scandalised for a moment.
‘Don’t be such an old woman, Hugo. It’s got to be done. Now, hurry off and get dressed, and get some breakfast down you, so that we can get on with the investigation.’
‘What else have you done? I can see something in your eyes that you’re not telling me.’
‘I’ve sent Beauchamp out on a little errand, that’s all.’ Lady Amanda was at her most dangerous when she was playing the innocent.
‘And what little errand would that be, then?’ Hugo knew her too well.
‘I’ve just asked him to ask a few people a couple of questions.’
‘What people and what questions?’ Hugo was not going to be fobbed off on this one.
‘I’ve sort of decided, maybe, to have a servants’ ball here in the great hall, and I’ve sent Beauchamp out to question one or two domestic staff as to what they would like to do and to eat at the event. Although, of course, I might not be able to manage it this year, at all.’
‘You’ve sent him round to all the houses of yesterday’s guests, to pump their staff, haven’t you?’
‘I might have.’
‘Manda, you are just about the end. I’d hate to be on your hit list: I wouldn’t stand a chance,’ with which opinion, Hugo toddled off to the dining room, limping slightly, in search of sustenance with which to break his fast.
Luckily, there had been a bit of a thaw overnight, so that Enid Tweedie was able to accomplish her mission of getting to Porky’s residence on her bicycle, without the necessity of Beauchamp having to collect and deliver her in the Rolls – which was just as well, as that gentleman had been sent about other business. Her pump primed with instructions, she rang the doorbell of Journey’s End at ten o’clock exactly, dressed in what she considered a lady’s companion/nurse should wear.
Her sensible tweed coat covered a white blouse with no frills or fussy bits, and a comfortable old tweed skirt that looked as though it had been inhabited by several governesses or nannies in the past. On her feet were sensible lace-up shoes, and her head was protected from the wind by a headscarf which friends had assured her looked very like one that the Queen had worn when filmed out and about at Balmoral.
Her sensible large black handbag held a roll of freezer bags with which to protect any evidence she should find it necessary to ‘acquire’, and a notebook and several pens (in case one ran out) with which to make notes, during her stay. Enid’s overnight bag would be delivered later, when Beauchamp was once again free to carry out this task, as she could hardly have managed the cycle with a suitcase in the wicker basket on her handlebars.
The door was answered by Mrs Twigger, a rotund figure with her hair rolled up underneath a (rather inferior, Enid thought) headscarf, and a button-up overall, for she was just a daily, now, and only worked three hours a day.
‘Cor! Am I glad you’ve got ’ere!’ Mrs Twigger exclaimed, looking at Enid as if she were the Archangel Gabriel himself. ‘She’s in a right old state. I can’t do anything with ’er, and I’m not even supposed to be ’ere today. Supposed to ’ave a week orf, I am, and ’ere’s me, only two days in me own ’ome, and ’ere I am again. Well, it’s not good enough. If I ’adn’t known you was comin’, I’d ’ave given me notice in there and then, when I got ’ere, what with ’er weepin’ an’ wailin’ all over the place.’
‘Never fear! I am here to take the load off your shoulders,’ announced Enid, in what she thought of as a confident and trustworthy voice. ‘You may go as soon as I’ve had a word with you about Mrs Barrington-Blyss. I understand she’s suffering from severe shock, and I’d like to know everything that’s happened since you arrived, so that I can assess what treatment is needed.’ Enid Tweedie would never have used the word ‘bullshit’, but she sure knew how to utilise it.
‘I’ll tell you what: I’ll make us a nice cuppa, and we can sit in the kitchen for a bit, and I’ll give you the whole story. What a ghastly thing to ’appen when yer out visitin’.’
Enid trotted into the house and followed the ample behind of the ‘daily’, with great hopes of what she would find out.
Beauchamp, meanwhile, was sitting at the huge kitchen table at The Manor, the residence of Sir Jolyon and Lady Felicity ffolliat DeWinter, being treated like minor royalty. He had a very charming way to him, when given the chance, and he’d certainly done a number on the female staff of the house. They buzzed round him like flies, offering him more tea or another slice of cake, checking to see if his chair was comfortable enough, or would he, perhaps, like another cushion?
One can only state that the manservant, who spent most of his time at the beck and call of Lady Amanda, was in his element. If he couldn’t get any sniff of a suppressed scandal from these eager females, then his name wasn’t Beauchamp! And he had brought tidings of a possible free knees-up. How popular could a man get?
Although it was nice to be treated like a lord, it wasn’t until he was issued with an invitation into the butler’s private sitting room that anything in the nature of scandal was to come to light.
Fustion, who had once been valet to The Manor’s late master, and had seen the staff of the establishment dwindle until he was the only indoor manservant left, had leaned forward in his chair with a very malicious gleam in his eye, when Beauchamp mentioned the suspicious death at Belchester Towers the day before.
Lifting his right index finger, with which to either conduct or punctuate what he was about to say, he launched into his exact feelings about the deceased. ‘That man was an absolute cad. How he ever managed to deceive dear Miss Lesley into marrying him, I will never know.
‘He might have fooled some people, but he never fooled me. A gold-digger and a social climber he was, and it looks like he got his just desserts. Always sniffing around, he was, for any little snippet of gossip he could pick up. I heard he was writing a book about the county folks hereabouts, and that it was to be a right nasty one.
‘Miss Lesley was a lovely girl in her youth, if you didn’t mind a nice roundness to the figure. I’ve always liked plump women, myself, but she had a real down on her figure, and then found she couldn’t stick to no diet sheet for more than a day or two. Many’s the time, during a party or a ball here, I’ve found her sitting all alone in some dark corner, just feeding her face and looking miserable.
‘I used to tell her that the right chap would come along one day and sweep her off her feet, but I never thought it’d be that bounder Barrington-Blyss. Right wrong ’un he was. I could tell from the word go. And she was never what you’d call happy. Still went on stuffing her face with anything she could lay her hands on. If she’d met the right chap that would never have been the case.’
‘I did hear he’d got a publishing deal, and that his book was due out soon. Just between yo
u, me and the gatepost, do you suppose there’s anything about your household in it?’ Beauchamp had worded his question carefully, using language that would cunningly persuade Fustion that he was of paramount importance in the ffolliat DeWinter household, and it worked.
‘I don’t know as there’s anything that could be proved or not, but there was some sort of monkey business going on when Sir Jolyon’s father – the late master, as it were – died – that, I do know for a fact, for it’s had me puzzled ever since.’
At this, Beauchamp pricked up his ears and, trying not to look too eager, he leant forward in his chair and encouraged Fustion with a mildly curious look, hoping that he would spill the beans in an effort to appear all-knowing.
‘I was valeting the old gentleman at the time, you understand, this place having a much bigger staff. The old master had terrible trouble with his breathing towards the end, probably because he was never to be seen without a cigar sticking out of the side of his mouth.
‘Anyway, he eventually took to his bed one winter: didn’t even have the puff to go up and down the stairs but, being a cantankerous old bug … soul, he sent me downstairs when he’d been in bed about a week, saying that he felt well enough to have a little puff, and asking me to fetch him his cigar case from his desk drawer in his study.
‘It simply wasn’t my case to argue, so off I went, trotting down to the ground floor to fetch him his dratted cigars, but when I got close to the study door, I realised it was ajar, and there was someone on the telephone inside the room. Well, I knew my place, same as everybody else in this household did, so I stopped, waiting for the call to finish, as anyone would’ve done, if they’d had any manners at all.’
Beauchamp recognised this for what it was: an invitation for him to sanction something that was nothing more nor less than out-and-out eavesdropping. ‘That must have left you in a very difficult position, Fustion. If you walked away, whoever it was would have heard you, and you couldn’t just walk in on a private telephone call without seeming terribly rude.’
Belchester Box Set Page 28
