Old Moorhen's Shredded Sporran: The Belchester Chronicles Book 4

by Andrea Frazer

  When they were seated, Beauchamp rose again and left the room. No one explained, and he returned a few minutes later wearing white gloves and bearing a somewhat battered soup tureen, continuing to serve those still seated, while Tabitha surveyed him with a puzzled face.

  No one spoke; no one asked what was going on.

  When all the bowls had been attended to, the manservant calmly removed his gloves and sat down at the only empty space left, and asked if Lady A wished to say grace.

  Tabitha, who was on Lady A’s left at the head of the table, leaned over and whispered, ‘Do your staff usually eat with you?’

  ‘Beauchamp is engaged to be married to the lady sitting next to him who, after they have been joined in holy matrimony, will be joining me as a maid. Until now she has been a friend and occasional helper, but they are so much part of the household that we shouldn’t dream of dining without them.’ She crossed her fingers under the table, as this had only recently, since this evening, in fact, become the case.

  It was all part of the plan to persuade the couple to make their home in Belchester Towers, and she hoped that Enid didn’t blow it by commenting on the novelty of the situation.

  At that moment, the lady in question rose and excused herself, as she needed to powder her nose. ‘Really, Enid, you know you should have gone before we were seated.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well, be quick about it. I don’t want food going cold or spoiling just because you’ve got a head like a sieve and a bladder the size of a walnut.’

  Enid turned a sickly smile on her hostess; she opened the doors, then froze as solidly as had Lady A earlier, when Beauchamp had discovered the missing plate, as two miniature spotted furry missiles fired themselves into the room and headed straight for the table.

  ‘Ludovic! Dominic!’ screeched Tabitha, pulling her arms and hands close in to her body to protect herself, as the two Bengals leapt, then skidded down the two rows of soup bowls, splashing the diners willy-nilly. One of them came to a halt, half-in and half-out of the bread basket, where he commenced fighting the rolls. The other had luck on his side, and ended up smack in the middle of the butter, which he proceeded to lick with great enjoyment.

  ‘Beauchamp, do something!’ yelled Lady A in a very unladylike way. The manservant, pausing only to mutter ‘Beecham’ into a hand, made a grab for the two intruders, who were so engrossed in their new activities that they were easily caught.

  ‘Did you not catch them earlier and put them somewhere for their own safety?’ queried Tabitha, scandalised.

  ‘Where would you suggest?’ retorted Lady A acidly. ‘Down the well, as in ‘Ding dong bell’?’

  ‘Manda! How could you suggest such a thing?’

  ‘I find it very easy, after a glance at Sergeant Glenister’s trousers and shirt and Inspector Moody’s poor cribbage board of a face.’

  ‘And where is Plumstead?’

  ‘More to the point, who is Plumstead?’

  ‘My manservant, who accompanied me here.’

  Enid answered from the doorway, where she was still immobile. ‘He’s being served in the kitchen, along with a couple of our staff who were on duty today. He’s being well looked after.’

  ‘But he’s not good enough to dine with us?’ Tabitha was beginning to get on Lady Amanda’s nerves.

  ‘He is neither a relative nor an acquaintance of many years’ standing. What right does he have to dine with us? He is merely passing through, and as an unfamiliar domestic, he is dining in the kitchen along with the other faceless domestics who have put in a day’s work here today.’ That shut the woman up.

  ‘Have you heard that the trial has been allotted a date now?’ asked Hugo, in an attempt to diffuse the situation, and in reference to one of her friends who had, in the recent past, been arrested for murder: an incident that fed the gossip-mill for a long time, and was continuing to do so now, even several weeks after the event.

  ‘Indeed!’ agreed his landlady, with no need for further explanation. ‘And I understand old Mad-As-A-Hattersley’s conducting it,’ she continued.

  ‘Bound to get off without a stain on the old character, then’ concluded Hugo with complete confidence.

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Tabitha, suddenly feeling rather left out.

  ‘Friend of ours. But I don’t think we ought to discuss that at table. Rather distressing, yer know. Change the subject Hugo, and think of something nice to talk about.’

  Beauchamp’s return drew all their attention, and his mistress looked a question at him. ‘In the old telephone booth,’ he replied, supplying the relevant information about the Bengals’ current whereabouts, ‘For now!’ appearing afterwards, to cough delicately into one hand.

  At the end of the meal, he rose from the table and approached the double-length sideboard for the spirits, only to pull up a few paces short and exclaim, with horror, ‘Not again!’

  ‘What is it, Beauchamp? Whatever is it that’s happened again and produced such a fearful reaction from you?’ Beauchamp was usually imperturbable, and this was as unprecedented as his Gallic cry of distress earlier on.

  Beauchamp, abandoning his game of ‘Beecham Tennis’ for the time being, after such a shock to his system, had to muster all his strength to announce, in a strangled voice, ‘It would appear that the tantalus has been stolen.’

  A tremendous breaking noise from the hall and the delicate galloping of tiny paws on the staircase drew their attention through the open door, and Beauchamp’s temporary paralysis was broken, as was that of his partner. The Bengals were evidently out of the old telephone booth and on the loose again.

  ‘That sounded just like my Japanese vase,’ declared Lady A with tremendous powers of clairvoyance, as she rose from the table to confirm her prediction.

  ‘That sounded like them going upstairs again. Dear God! I do believe that, just this once, I left my room door open,’ fussed Hugo, while visions of shredded winter drawers danced in his head.

  A loud metallic boom, followed by what sounded like the landing of shrapnel at the scene of the incident, now echoed through the hall, and a posse of concerned elderly people exited the dining room and headed for the stairs, watched by a trio of heads round the kitchen door frame, one of which belonged to Plumstead.

  On the landing, a collection of metal objects was still rocking gently on the floor, while in the midst of them, lay a suit of armour, once proudly upstanding in the corner to the rear of the space.

  ‘Dear God! They can’t have had something that heavy over, can they?’

  ‘They’re very strong, you know,’ Tabitha defended the breed, ‘And fearfully intelligent. If there was any way of getting that thing over, they’d have worked it out. They’re fast thinkers, too. It must have been set up wonky.’

  ‘Bully for them! Have you any idea how much it costs per hour for the services of an armourer, these days? And it was perfectly set-up before.’

  ‘Of course I haven’t, Manda. Surely you don’t think I live in a mausoleum similar to this, do you?’

  ‘That’s Lady Amanda to you, Tabitha,’ replied the lady of the house, becoming haughty and distant. This, on top of the Japanese vase was not going to prove easy to forgive, and expensive to put right, too.

  ‘What is that dreadful smell?!’ Hugo was always the pragmatic one, and he’d been wondering, since they’d arrived on the landing, what the rather nefarious niff that had been assaulting his nostrils was.

  Enid was definitely the one who screamed first, and who announced, ‘There’s someone in that suit of armour. There’s a body in it!’

  And after Beauchamp had switched on the light and they had all looked a little more carefully, they realised that she was absolutely right, and the smell wafting around them declared that it was not a very fresh one, either.

  ‘Someone’s definitely been mucking about with my armour,’ declared its owner. ‘That’s why it was easy to dislodge. It must have been left at an angle. Sheeh! That does
smell rank.’

  Manda, Hugo, and Tabitha had retired, in a state of shock, to the drawing room, where Beauchamp served them with coffee, and DI Moody summoned a Scene of Crime Unit and the Forensic Medical Examiner. He was in his element, now, what with there having been two burglaries – one must not forget the tantalus – and a murder at the (stately) home of his arch-enemy.

  That part of the house had been awash with cameramen, both still and moving, men dusting for fingerprints and other miscellaneous bodies, all concerned with the particular one that had unexpectedly turned up in the suit of armour. Thus, those staying on the premises decided to have an early night and leave them all to their various specialist tasks. Beauchamp could lock up after them when they left.

  No further news reached the occupants of Belchester Towers that evening.

  Chapter Four

  Wednesday

  Not a word about the finding of a corpse inside an ancient suit of armour was said at breakfast, all the diners being much too nice-mouthed to discuss something so distasteful while they were at table.

  Gossip had been rife in the kitchen before the meal was served, however, although it was accompanied by a most un-human yowling. Beauchamp had suddenly remembered that, years ago, when the family had had several miniature Dachshunds, his lordship had had a large metal cage constructed out of a stout mesh, for when they got too playful and annoyingly underfoot.

  This, he had remembered, also, had been stored in the barn when the last of them had gone to that great kennel in the sky, and he had retrieved it, got a couple of the outside staff engaged on the winter tidy-up to clean it, and installed it in a dead space in the kitchen. With the little devils in that stout place of confinement, it might be a little less peaceful in the domestic quarters, but at least they knew where the hairy devils were every minute of the day, and there would be no more feline mayhem to deal with.

  About ten o’clock, the two plain-clothes policemen appeared again on the front steps, DS Glenister looking his usual amiable self, DI Moody like a man on a mission. He’d get one over on that uppity old witch this time, or he was a Chinaman.

  Maybe she was hard up, and had arranged to fence all the plate and that tantalising thingumajig, then knocked off the man she’d hired to do it, and hidden his body in that suit of armour? As far as he was concerned, that was as good a theory as any, and one that filled his very soul with the deepest satisfaction; that, and the thought that he’d get to lock Lady Muck up for a good many years.

  At their arrival, Hugo made a, for him, sudden decision to ask Tabitha if she’d like to go out for a ride on the tricycles. It was brisk weather, but they could just nip into Belchester and have a nice cup of hot chocolate.

  His sister was intrigued at the idea of riding a tricycle, which was something she had never done before, and agreed eagerly, especially when she’d just caught sight of that grim man with the punctured face who had so blighted cocktails the night before. The younger one was OK, but the older detective looked like he specialised in terrorising innocent witnesses.

  Hugo went outside ahead of her to get the tricycles out of the barn, thinking that he had not ridden his for some time. As it had a motor attached to it to help him when he needed it, and to propel him when he was feeling particularly feeble, it would probably take some starting. He’d eventually become used to using the conveyance and had found it a very useful means of transport.

  He walked into the barn, and experienced one of those moments of paralysis which were becoming quite the thing at this address. He felt like his eyes were standing out on stalks. How could this be? How could such an event have occurred?

  The first intimation that Lady Amanda had of the situation was a hurtling – within the limit of his physical capabilities – Hugo, gabbling incoherently, an anxious Tabitha in his wake.

  ‘Slow down, Hugo,’ advise Lady A, thinking that this was the first time she had ever had to use such a phrase with regard to her old friend. ‘Whatever is the matter with you?’

  ‘The tri … the tri … the tricycles have been st-st-stolen,’ he puffed, doing his best to be coherent. ‘They’re g-g-gone from the b-b-b-a-rn.’

  ‘Nooo!’ She replied. ‘Whoever would take those, when there are so many other more valuable objects to make away with?’

  ‘Don’t know!’ wheezed Hugo, still struggling to get his breath.

  At that moment, Lady A became aware of another huffing figure by her elbow, and swivelled slightly to find a winded Moody by her other side, obviously bursting with news. ‘Well, what is it, man?’ she queried, impatiently.

  ‘I regret to inform you that the exterior entrance to the cellarage has been breached,’ he informed her in a doleful voice but, strangely, he smiled as he spoke.

  ‘So that means that anyone …’ Her voice trailed off in horror.

  ‘It means that anyone could have gained access to your house and helped themselves to anything they fancied. I suggest you get that foppy houseman of yours to check out anything of particular value, just to make sure you’ve still got it.’

  His gloomy summing up of the situation galvanised her into action, and she became a portly blur as she buzzed down the hall to find Beauchamp and send him on a treasure hunt to take register of her valued belongings.

  A few minutes later the three of them, now minus the DI, had gathered glumly in the morning room and Lady A rang for morning coffee with the thought that Beauchamp could delay his mammoth search until he had supplied these three downcast souls with something sustaining. She only hoped the man would have sufficient common sense to provide a good solid selection of biscuits with which to accompany the beverage, as they all needed a bit of bucking up.

  When the manservant finally arrived with his laden tray, his facial expression did not bode well. ‘Good grief, Beauchamp! Whatever is the matter now? Has somebody died? … Apart from that unfortunate man upstairs, I mean.’

  ‘No, your ladyship,’ replied Beauchamp dolefully, without the slightest desire to cough ‘Beecham’ into his hand, and hoping that this would not still be true after he had imparted the news he bore so heavily in his heart. He really ought to revive ‘Beecham Tennis’.

  ‘However, I regret to inform you that the collection of Meissen figures that used to grace the library is no longer present, nor the Worcester collection from your late father’s study.’

  ‘What? Nooo. They can’t be gone! They took generations to collect. They must have been moved. They really can’t have been taken. Some of them were unique – the only example left in the world. Where are my smelling salts? Call for a doctor. I think I’m going to have a seizure.’ It was the closest she had ever found herself to a swoon in her life.

  Hugo rushed to her side on the central sofa and took her hand, immediately beginning to pat it to revive her. ‘There, there, dear Manda. Don’t take on so. You’re adequately insured, so there should be no financial loss.’

  ‘No financial loss? That means nothing. Those collections were irreplaceable. Some pieces were the only surviving examples known.’

  ‘Why weren’t they kept in the bank, then?’ asked Tabitha, in all innocence.

  ‘In the bank? In the bank?’ spluttered Lady Amanda. ‘And just how is one supposed to enjoy the beauty of a unique object when it’s locked away in the darkness in a bank, you bloody foolish woman?’

  Tabitha promptly did a perfect imitation of a beetroot, and retired from the room in some confusion.

  ‘Manda! Manners!’ Hugo upbraided her. He had no idea that she’d overheard his conversation with his sister about him residing at Belchester Towers, or how it had upset her.

  ‘Well, did you ever hear such a plebeian idea in your entire life?’

  ‘Sometimes she speaks without thinking.’

  ‘Does she even know how to? – think, that is. And speaking of plebeians, get that blasted idiot of a policeman in here. He needs to know about this. Damn and blast it! With him in charge of the investigation, we’ll never see hide n
or hair of any of the pieces again. And, no doubt, he’ll have the place swarming with that bloody soccer team again,’ she concluded, with a rather mangled reference to the SOCO team that would, no doubt, be needed.

  ‘And he’d better be quick about it, because I’ve got the Filth-Busters coming in tomorrow,’ she added, referring to a large group of local ladies who came to the house at regular intervals to give it a good going over and stop the dirt from building up too much.

  She managed to impress upon Moody the necessity for moving swiftly, and he had a team in the house within the hour, swarming all over it and generally getting in everyone’s way, destroying any chance there was of privacy, and leaving grey powder over more than it appeared they needed to.

  Having heard Lady Amanda’s announcement of the invasion of the cleaners the next day, Tabitha asked her, ‘Why don’t you just have more live-in staff, then you wouldn’t have so much upheaval, doing it only now and again?’

  ‘Because,’ replied Lady A, ‘my mother discovered that they’re more trouble than they’re worth, as my father was always playing catch-me-if-you-can with the maids, and then not running very fast.’ As she said this, she gave a furtive glance in the direction of Beauchamp, who flicked her a snide sneer. If her father hadn’t had the irresistible urge to play hunt-the-sausage with the maids, he would not even exist.

  His glare was also prohibiting, as he did not want her to go into more detail in front of Tabitha. After all, his actual origins had only come to light to Lady Amanda in quite recent times, but she knew when to zip her lip.

  After all the turmoil of everything being dusted for fingerprints, and every last nook and cranny being turfed out, the whole household decided on an early night again, before the onslaught of cleaners on the morrow, and Belchester Towers was in darkness well before its usual hour, that day.

  Thursday

  The house was alive with alien bodies again, from quite early the next morning, but this time they wore headscarves and pinafores, rather than white protective overalls, and the sound of shrill female chatter filled the air as the women went about their tasks to the inevitable hum of vacuum cleaners.