MacDuff had sloped off, once more, to do his inspector’s bidding feeling slightly more confident, and leaving, as was his habit, the door open, and his superior to mutter, ‘Born in a barn, that laddie!’ The door to the cavernous drawing room, in which the guests were lurking, having taken coffee, was open and, the acoustics were such that Glenister could hear every word uttered by his constable, who had one of those booming voices redolent of doom.
He heard him find his first interviewee, and the request to come to the study, followed by an audible puffing and blowing from the recipient of this request. When MacDuff reached the study door and presented his first ‘catch’ with the words, ‘Mr Wriothesley, sir,’ the bubbling of suppressed wrath finally erupted.
‘You ignorant little oik! M’ name’s Rizzly, not that ghastly strangulated noise you made? Have you no education whatsoever, man? Rizzly! That’s pronounced R-I-Z-Z-L-Y, for your information, and be sure you don’t forget it!’
MacDuff muttered a confused apology, blushing to the roots of his helmet, which he had retained, due to the temperature inside the castle, and he took his place ready to take notes with a very sheepish expression.
It was all Glenister could do to suppress his mirth, and the incident raised his spirits considerably. Working with MacDuff always left him feeling gloomy and depressed, and this was a considerable improvement on normal circumstances.
MacDuff’s next mission was to collect Ralf Colcolough, and his first mistake was to raise his voice to ask if that young man was present. At this point, the figure of a young man suddenly swooped down on him, braying, ‘Koukli! Koukli! Koukli! Raif Koukli!’ and the constable actually ducked, thinking he was being attacked by a madman.
From his unseen desk, Glenister turned purple with glee. If MacDuff were to be habitually gloomy, then he’d give him something to be gloomy about.
A request for a Mr Smellie and a Mr Menzies variously brought forth shouts of, ‘Smiley, man! That’s Smiley! How dare you call me smelly!’ and ‘Ming-is, you moron! How can you not pronounce Ming-is when you’re a Scot?’
By the time MacDuff got to Drew and Elspeth Ruthven and St John Bagehot, he was nearly on his knees with embarrassment, and adopted the policy of approaching the nearest person, indicating the name on the list of the person he wished to collect for interview, thus avoiding using a name at all.
What surprised him most of all was that the inspector had seemed to know the exact pronunciation of each and every one of these truly weird names, and he almost, but not quite, suspected that a practical joke was being played on him.
The Belchester Towers Four reassembled in Lady Amanda’s room for afternoon tea, each with a tale to tell of their interview with the unexpected Inspector Glenister. Hugo was the first to speak. ‘You might have said something at lunch, Manda. That way, we wouldn’t have been in such jitters about the experience.’
‘Why should you three get off lightly, when I hadn’t had that advantage?’
‘Oh, that’s rather bad form, don’t you think, Manda?’ he asked.
‘If you want to hear about bad form, I’ll tell you about what happened to me while you were being interviewed. There are some uncouth louts, who are under this roof in the guise of guests, over whom I would not pour a bucket of water if they were on fire.’
‘Whatever did they say?’ asked Beauchamp, fluffing up his dander for possible later use. No one was going to mouth off his half-sister/employer without him having a say in matters.
‘It’s simply not worth repeating, Beauchamp. I merely advise you that I should be obliged if you would try to find out a bit about that bounder Menzies, and that cad Wriothesley.’
‘Consider it done, m’lady.’ Beauchamp was grinding his teeth as he agreed to this. The slightest step out of line, and he’d scrag them, he was compelled to announce.
‘Control yourself, man. You’ll scrag no one until I tell you to. Have you got that? Now, about tomorrow: I’ve taken a look at the three lists, and have decided that Hugo and you, Beauchamp, will go skiing, I will go deer stalking and, if you don’t mind, Enid, I’d like you to stay in the castle to see what you can screw out of the staff. Do you mind staying here?’
‘There’s no way I want to go out in this weather. I’ll be one big chilblain the day after. I can’t think of anything I’d like better than to sit in the servants’ hall with that roaring fire, drinking tea all day long, and gossiping to my heart’s content.’
‘Deal!’ yipped Lady A, spitting enthusiastically on her hand and offering it to Enid to seal the deal. Enid declined the hand with a slight shudder, covering her moue of distaste discreetly with her hand.
Chapter Five
The next morning, the three groups gathered together in the hall, waiting to commence their chosen activities. Drew and Moira Ruthven and Siobhan had, as Lady Amanda had predicted, chosen the sleigh ride option, as had St John Bagehot (surprisingly) and Elspeth Smellie, whose exotic complexion would look magnificent in the snowy surroundings.
The stalking group would be led by Macdonald, and included Sir Cardew, Wriothesley and Menzies. Those headed for the nursery slope for the skiing were being led by Iain Smellie, who was an experienced skier, and had volunteered to teach kindergarten today, along with Beauchamp, the rather effeminate Colcolough, and the terrified Hugo.
The stalking party would take with it, or have delivered, a picnic lunch, to be eaten in one of the many shelters scattered around the estate in which estate workers, or anyone else on the property who fell foul of the weather, and needed somewhere to seek sanctuary, could retire. Each contained a table and chairs, a camping stove and a rude cot, in case the weather was persistent in its inclemency.
The sleighing party was the first to leave, warmly wrapped in fur rugs and thick woolly hats, each with its own bright bobble nodding on the top. The stalking party stood at the large hall table surveying a map, Macdonald advising the route that he thought would be the most likely to result in good view of stags, given the latest information he had gathered from other estate workers.
When approved, he marked the route on the map with a bright pink highlighter and, checking that they all had on walking boots and sufficient layers of clothing for the exercise planned, they set off. Lady Amanda, like the other members of the party, had a stout stick with her, to aid walking on the rougher ground, and had made a point of putting on two pairs of long ‘janes’ and two thermal vests, under her overgarments. No way did she want to become today’s case of hypothermia.
Apart from Cardew and Macdonald, her only other companions were Menzies and Grizzly Rizzly, and she muttered constantly to herself to remember not to call him that to his face. The last thing she needed on a day out like this was a smack in the mouth to add to her miseries, and she was determined to gain the trust of these other two guests, to see if they could have had anything to do with the piper’s death.
The skiing party headed out to the back of the castle, where there was a room that contained all they needed for their outing. Granted, the skis were not the most modern, but there were boots aplenty, in a variety of sizes, and skiing outerwear too, so that no one unexpectedly joined the Frostbite Club, and went home missing a finger or toe or two.
When each member of the party was clad to Iain Smellie’s satisfaction, he warned them not to do anything they had not expressly been instructed to do, and to obey instructions to the letter. Carrying their skis, a somewhat difficult task for Hugo, as he had brought along his walking sticks, as an aid to balance in the treacherous snow, Iain led them to a promontory not far from the rear of the castle, and pointed out the slope that lazily meandered its way down towards the foot of the distant hills.
‘This is what we’re going to be working on today,’ he announced and, in a flurry of skis, ski poles and walking sticks, all of which seemed to have a life of their own, Hugo raised a hand and asked, ‘And having got down, how do you propose we get up again? I’m no spring chicken, and don’t fare very well with “u
p”.’
‘Already taken care of,’ answered Iain, a twinkle of satisfaction in his eyes. ‘I’ve made arrangements with Macdonald that one of the estate workers will bring a Land Rover to the base of the slope – he should be with us within half an hour – and he’ll convey us back to the top. In the meantime, we’ll concentrate on the basics, if you wouldn’t mind clipping your boots on to your skis.’
Beauchamp came to Hugo’s aid, and ordered him to stand as still as he could, while his boots were offered up to the ski clips. Having been released from carrying the skis, Hugo ditched the walking sticks and used the ski poles, dug well into the compacted snow, to do his best impression of a flamingo, with just one foot on the ground. Finally he was ready, and Beauchamp attended to his own boot clipping.
‘Right then, everybody, the first thing we’re going to do is just try a gentle movement downhill. You won’t need your poles for this. I just want you to turn the toes of your skis very slightly towards each other when you face the slope, before moving on to it. This should allow you to move slowly forward and downwards. If you want to stop, move the tips of the skis closer together. I shall now demonstrate.’
This, he proceeded to do, with perfect aplomb, making it look easier than walking in the snow. ‘You first, Beauchamp. You look like a fairly well co-ordinated chap. If you can do it, it will inspire confidence in the others.’
Beauchamp was good at following instructions to the letter after all the years he had worked for Lady Amanda, and managed a slow glide down the shallow first section of the slope, even managing to turn himself sideways and crab-walk back up to where the others were waiting.
‘Have you done this before?’ Iain asked, surprised at how effortless the man had made it look.
‘Never,’ replied Beauchamp with a smirk, ‘but I have seen it done on the television.’
‘Now,’ said Iain, ‘I want you to have a go, Mr Colcolough, if you would be so kind. Please don’t go any further than Mr Beauchamp here did, as the slope gets steeper, the further it goes. And keep to the right side, if you will, for the left side extends much further than the right, and gets a might steeper as it runs. We want to stick to the tried and tested nursery run today.’
Ralf Colcolough, a gangling mess of ski sticks and skis, his long arms and legs seemingly in the control of a malign god, managed to move himself to the top of the little slope with trepidation, frequently making little squeaking noises of fear and alarm.
‘No ski poles, if you please, Mr Colcolough. You simply don’t need them for this first exercise.’
Colcolough discarded his poles with rather more effort than was necessary, which immediately set him moving downwards. ‘Points of skis pointing slightly inwards, please,’ shouted Iain, in vain, after his retreating figure.
Gathering speed at an alarming rate, unable to do anything about changing his skis from a parallel position, Colcolough began to wave his arms in the air, and hoots of distress could be heard as he careered towards the bottom of the right-hand side of the slope.
At the foot, where the ground levelled out, he lost control in his panic, and went head over heels, shedding his skis as he went, and proceeding to produce a long drawn-out screech of a word that Hugo pretended not to understand to be ‘Ffffuuuuuuuccckk!!!’ just as a Land Rover approached the prone figure.
From the top of the slope, the others watched while the ghillie got out of his vehicle, calmly collected both skis and put them in the back, then went to Colcolough’s aid, pitching him back upright and inserting him in the passenger seat, as if pandering to a frightened child.
Back at the top of the slope, the ghillie exited the vehicle first, informing them all that, ‘It’s just a wee bittie bruising. He’ll be fine after a nice long soak. Nae worries.’
Colcolough eased himself out of his seat and said, in apology, to the others in the group, ‘I say, I’m dreadfully sorry about what I yelled on the way down. Frightful language. No call for it. Please accept my word that it won’t be repeated.’
‘Your turn, Mr Cholmondley-Crichton-Crump,’ announced Iain, determined that everyone should have a go at this new activity, for he had no intention of letting Hugo wriggle out of it. ‘Now, let’s get you in position,’ he ordered, pushing the hapless Hugo across the snow like an over-sized toy.
‘I don’t think I want to try this,’ he pleaded, but Iain was having none of it.
‘I’ll just give you a little push, and off you’ll go. Nothing to it. Skis turned in a bit, like I told you.’
He’d already given Hugo a mighty shove before he noticed that Hugo still had his ski poles in his hands, and yelling, ‘No poles for this,’ made a mad grab at them, which destabilised him sufficiently for him to land face down in the snow, watching Hugo’s retreating figure from ground level.
‘Oh, Lord. Oh, my good gracious me!’ exclaimed Hugo, wildly waving his poles, his speed increasing by the second, and his path drifting left. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it, as he approached the steeper left hand side of the slope, and he was aware of Iain shouting, ‘No, no! Go right! Turn, you silly old fool. Turn right, for God’s sake!’
Even through the buzzing panic in his brain, Hugo was aware of the insult, and thought, as he careered along, his poles waving wildly like antennae, that if he survived this plunge, he had a good mind to beep the blighter on the snoot. Shoving him like that was, if not exactly attempted murder – at least, it wasn’t murder yet – but constituted an assault upon his person which was reckless, to say the least.
At this point, one of his ski poles made contact with the ground and catapulted him into the air, where he did a perfect somersault, then seemed to cartwheel towards the far distant end of the steep incline, making ‘ooh’ and ‘argh’ noises, with the occasional ‘ouch’ and, from a distance, doing a fair impression of a centipede on speed.
Before Iain could get to his feet, the Land Rover was off down the slope in pursuit of the flying figure of Hugo, who was just coming to rest in a heap of limbs, skis and poles, lying like a tangled spider at the base of the slope, shouting repeatedly, ‘Bum! Bum! Bum!’ then proceeding to laugh hysterically.
‘Ha ha ha! Hee hee hee hee hee! Ho ho ho!’ floated upwards, unimpeded in the cold clear air, to the others in his party, who could not work out whether he was hysterical with fear or had lost his mind somewhere on the way down.
Iain, in a complete fluster lest Hugo try to slap some sort of law suit on him, pushed off and skied down to join the Land Rover, from which the ghillie was just emerging at the foot of the slope. Both men reached the still recumbent form, Iain arriving in a shower of powdery snow as he made an abrupt halt as near to the figure as he could, without actually causing any further damage.
‘Are ye hurt, man?’ asked the ghillie, showing his concern by casually rolling a cigarette.
‘Ha ha hee hee ho ho ha ha ha!’ chortled Hugo, still unable to control what sounded like hysteria.
‘Do you need an ambulance?’ asked Iain, still concerned about litigation.
‘I’m fine!’ Hugo finally managed to splutter. ‘All these clothes you made me wear. I might as well have been wrapped in cotton wool.’
Pulling off a glove, he wiped tears from his eyes and continued, ‘I haven’t had so much fun since my first ride on a rollercoaster. Just don’t ask me to do it again. Has anyone got a flask about them? I could do with a “wee nip” to settle my nerves.’
At that moment, Beauchamp slid to a stop beside them and provided Lady A’s second best flask, the first one now being considered as a piece of evidence in the piper’s death, and Hugo took a long, grateful swig. ‘I shall refrain from mentioning anything about your mishap to her ladyship, should I happen to see her before you. She’ll only fret.’
‘Good show, Beauchamp! Excellent idea! I say, do you think I could be dropped back at the castle? I could do with a bit of a lie down, and just ignore lunch. I’m not in the least hungry. It must be that adrenalin stuff that I’ve hear
d so much about, and now I think I’ve experienced it, too. I don’t want to do any more skiing, though. It doesn’t feel half as elegant as it looks, and I really don’t think it’s for me. Sorry.’
Lady Amanda’s excursion started in what, to her, seemed a slightly bizarre fashion. Heading to exit the castle by a side entrance, the party came upon a pile of what looked, to her ladyship, to be a pile of old tennis racquets. ‘Surely we’re not playing tennis in this weather?’ she quipped.
‘Dunnae be so silly, girl!’ growled Macdonald. ‘The area immediately around the castle has been cleared of snow, but we’ve tae get tae the forest, and the snow’s knee-deep. We’ll not get there at all if we dinnae use snowshoes. Noo, get yerselves shod, and we’ll be off.’
After about five minutes of puffing and blowing – some had considerable ‘corporations’ to bend over, to achieve this shoeing activity – the five souls braved the biting cold and went outside to start their trek to the forest, where the snow would be negligible because of the tree cover.
Lady Amanda’s gait resembled that of a person auditioning for a part in a live action version of The Wrong Trousers, as she lifted her feet high and stepped forward, occasionally getting the back of the snowshoe stuck in the snow. After a few occasions when she nearly took a tumble, she was given an impatient instruction from the morose Macdonald.
‘Lift yer feets and plant them down flat, wuman, else ye’ll go arse over tit, an’ at your weight, I’ll nae be pullin’ ye up again.’
Insulted to a degree she had only ever before suffered at school, she blushed as brightly as a robin’s breast, and did ‘as she had been bid’, finding that – damn and blast it – the old man was perfectly correct, and it did make the going much easier. None of the others had suffered a similar problem, so she assumed they had used such ungainly contraptions before. At least now she could keep up with them.
Belchester Box Set Page 43
