by T A Williams
Mrs Vinnicombe materialised from the general direction of the scullery carrying a dustpan and brush. Carrying is too weak a term. She carried a dustpan in the same way that Wyatt Earp carried his Colt 45, or a Samurai his sword. Her determined manner, and steely eye for grime, made clear to all and sundry that she was a woman with a mission. Her muscular arms – attached to a sturdy body of generous proportions – were dedicated to the eradication of dirt, wherever it might be. Indeed, upon catching sight of Duggie, her first action had been to bowl right up to him and vigorously rub some minute speck of dirt from his shirt. The sight of such a large figure, brandishing something in its hand, approaching him at a rate of knots was daunting. He recovered quickly – after all, a duster was in a different league from a loaded broom handle – and played the affable employer with some success.
‘Ah, good morning and you are…’
She barked out her name.
He repeated it, while he studied her; ‘Mrs Vinnicombe, how nice to meet you. And you are the…?’
‘Housekeeper.’ No time to waste. There was dirt out there, waiting to be combated. It was the proverbial dirty job, and she was the woman to do it. Duggie took in her aggressive attitude and wisely decided to make an ally of her, rather than an opponent.
‘I must congratulate you on the general air of sparkling cleanliness in the whole house. It is a rare pleasure to find oneself in an environment where such evident care has been taken.’ He beamed in her direction and was rewarded by just the hint of a smile. Good, he thought to himself, I’m getting there.
‘Tell me, Mrs Vinnicombe, who are the other members of staff here at the manor?’
‘There’s Patrick.’
‘Yes, I have already met him.’
‘Oh, you were lucky. He doesn’t seem to be around very much.’ There was disapproval in her voice. ‘And then there’s Stan. He’s the gardener. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him. He’s here all the time. It’s a huge job he’s got. There used to be a team of groundsmen once upon a time. Now he’s got to do it all by himself.’ He caught a definite tone of respect for the gardener’s industriousness.
‘Anybody else, Mrs Vinnicombe?’
Her tone became glacial. ‘Well, theoretically, there’s the butler. But I haven’t seen him for months.’
‘And what might his name be?’
‘Henri.’
Her pronunciation was not perfect and, in fairness, nobody had told Duggie that there was a foreign member of staff – unless you counted Paddy. So it took a few moments before he realised that the butler was probably of French extraction rather than somebody working for nothing in an honorary position.
‘Ah, Henri.’ He repeated the name a few times. ‘So that’s the lot? Just the four of you?’
‘That is correct, sir. And, just think, only ten years ago there was a staff of twenty.’ This time he could clearly hear the regret in her voice. He did his best to cheer her up.
‘Well, Mrs Vinnicombe, that is all going to change. Now that Professor Dalby is here, we are going to see that the manor returns to its glory days.’
She beamed. Then, excusing herself, she set off again with her duster. He watched her go.
In the absence of the butler, he decided to look around outside, in the hope that the gardener might be forthcoming. In front of the manor was a pair of superb cedars. No doubt planted generations, if not centuries, earlier, they were now absolutely huge. The lower branch of the bigger one was the girth of most other fully grown trees. So big indeed, that it had to be supported by a couple of massive props. A squirrel sat on its hind legs and surveyed Duggie’s approach from the relative safety of the next branch up. Stan the Gardener watched him from the seat of a garden tractor. Of the two, the squirrel looked more likely to give a civil reply to a question, but Duggie tried Stan anyway.
‘You must be Stan, the gardener.’
‘Must I?’
Not a good start. Duggie eyed the squirrel tentatively, but decided to give the gardener one more try.
‘Hello. My name is Douglas Scott. I’m the new chief executive.’
‘Chief executive of what?’
Terse, chilly, but, nonetheless a fair question. Duggie sat down on a log and started to tell him about the plan to turn the manor into a private country club. As he outlined some of his ideas, he was rewarded by a first glimmer of interest, which then led to a response.
‘Been telling them for years something needed to be done to the place. Old Mr McKinnon let it all go to pot in his final years, when he went doolally. Mind you, he was bed-ridden for the last three, or that might even be four, so he never even saw the gardens towards the end.’
Stan was a tall, rather gangly, individual, with one of those cavernous, morose faces that so rarely look happy, even if the owner is. As so often happens, the face had given up trying. As a result, Stan constantly looked as though he had just stepped in something. He was now, however, showing signs of uncharacteristic animation. Duggie felt a minor victory might have been achieved.
‘The gardens look wonderful, I must say. And how about the golf course?’ A troubled grimace crossed the already lugubrious face in front of him.
‘Breaks my heart. Could be superb, but golf courses take time and men. Here it’s just me, and it’s all I can do to mow the grass. The greens are indistinguishable from the fairways, and the bloody rabbits are digging holes everywhere.’
Duggie decided against making a joke along the lines of how he thought it was only a nine-hole course. Instead, he changed tack and sounded Stan out on the other members of the staff.
‘So there are just the four of you here, then?’
‘More like three, if you ask me – and only two of us do any work.’ His drooping mouth curled up into a brief sneer as Duggie asked him what he meant. ‘Our French friend. Conspicuous by his absence.’ Duggie picked up on this.
‘That’s the butler, you mean? Why is he absent? Is he sick?’
Stan replied reluctantly. ‘You’d better ask him that, Mr Scott.’
Duggie tried to prod a bit more about the butler.
‘So where might I find the butler? Any idea?’
Stan studied him for a moment. ‘Try asking at the Prince William. Just along the road at the entrance to Toplingham.’ His eyes flicked across to a figure coming up the drive. ‘I see that Patrick has ventured forth from the comforts of home, so I’ll leave the two of you together.’
He turned the key in the ignition, and the tractor roared into life. Duggie gave him a wave of the hand, and watched him leave in the direction of the first tee, assuming it was still there under all the undergrowth. Behind him, he heard the unmistakable tones of the Irishman.
‘A very good afternoon to you, Mr Scott. Would you be out for a constitutional to allow the ingestion of oxygen through your pharynx, down your trachea, and into the labyrinth that would be your bronchi, with all their clusters of alveoli, now would you?’
Duggie had to stop and think for a moment.
‘A breath of fresh air?’ He hazarded the translation. Paddy was impressed.
‘Sure and a fine grasp of the medical you have, to be sure. Your cranium surely houses a cerebral cortex of monumental proportions, now it does so, too.’
Duggie was beginning to find the conversation a little wearing.
‘I’m sure that’s right, Paddy, but tell me, do you think I might be able to find the butler down at the Prince William? Stan the gardener tells me he likes to hang out there.’
The old man gave him a knowing wink. ‘That he might, that he might. Sure and you could do far worse than begin your investigations there. A gentleman such as yourself, with an outstanding composite cognitive ability, you will find him for sure, that you will, you will.’
Duggie decided to reply in kind.
‘Paddy, has anybody ever told you, your constant references to medical terminology can make you a right case of haemorrhoids?’ The factotum looked uncertain, so Duggie explained.
>
‘A right pain in the arse, Paddy. A right pain in the arse.’
He patted him on the scapula with the prehensile multi-fingered body part at the end of his arm and set off for the car.
Chapter 8
From the window of the study on the first floor, Linda watched the car disappear down the drive.
‘Duggie seems really keen to get on with things.’ She sounded impressed.
She turned back from the window and came over to where Roger was seated at the desk. He quickly averted his eyes, which had been feasting forlornly upon her curves. He was reminded of one of Saint Bernard’s letters to Ermengarde, Countess of Brittany. In this, he told her, my heart is close to you, even if my body is absent. For his part, he knew that his heart had belonged to Linda for years. The problem was, alas, that their bodies remained frustratingly separated from each other.
‘Duggie? When he gets his teeth into something, he doesn’t give up.’
It was an unfortunate choice of words. This was exactly what Jasper, the monster dog, was doing to Roger’s shoe at the time. Each time Roger tried to pull it back, the dog tugged all the harder, greatly enjoying what he deemed to be a super game. The fact that Roger’s foot was still inside the shoe, made it all the more fun.
‘He’s got all sorts of ideas for this country club thing. If anybody can make a go of it, he can. He tells me he hopes to have people queuing at the doors before the end of January.’
He tried to ignore the dog and its insistent tugging and concentrate on the contents of the desk. This had finally yielded to one of the keys from the treasure chest. Considering the size of the thing, it was remarkably empty. Just a few folders with fairly modern printed labels such as Housekeeping, Petty Cash and Utilities and a handful of ledgers, the top one of which was one marked Staff.
‘Bingo.’
He held it up so she could see the label, then opened it. Each page was an employee. He almost got palpitations when he saw that the book was three-quarters full.
‘How many people did Uncle Eustace employ, for crying out loud?’
His panic-stricken cry brought Linda to his side. It took only a matter of seconds before she noticed that the vast majority of the pages contained a start and finish date. Only four were still active. He sighed with relief and thanked his lucky stars that he had had the courage to ask her to come to the manor with him. He would be lost without her.
‘I would be lost without you.’
She smiled and nodded. There then ensued one of their habitual awkward silences, until a noise at the door awakened Jasper’s guard dog instincts. He released his hold on the shoe and raced across to the door. On the way, he emitted a fearful bark, designed to put the fear of God into any intruders. That was certainly the effect it had upon Roger and Linda. They both recoiled in shock.
‘Jasper, Jasper. For God’s sake, shush.’
Roger went over to the door and, dog in one hand, turned the handle. He was confronted by an extremely large lady holding a duster and a bottle of Brasso. The dog lurched forward but then, registering the expression of hostile disapproval on her face, changed his mind. He retreated backwards into the room with all the aplomb of a centre forward, watching the opposition goalkeeper clear his line. The sudden change of direction completely wrong-footed Roger. Losing his grip on the collar, he also lost his footing on the polished parquet. He ended up flat on his back.
‘My name is Vinnicombe, Mrs Vinnicombe. We have not been formally introduced yet.’ She palmed the Brasso professionally and extended a shiny black and green hand to him, as he hauled himself up from the floor. He smiled self-consciously and took the proffered hand.
‘Very pleased to meet you, Mrs Vinnicombe. My name is Dalby, Roger Dalby. Mr McKinnon was my uncle, my mother’s brother. This is my colleague and personal assistant, Linda Reid. We were just commenting upon how clean and polished the house is. Very impressive.’
‘Yes, Mrs Vinnicombe, you should be very proud of your work here.’
Linda’s enthusiastic tone seemed to do the trick. They both saw the hint of a smile before, as if by magic, the Brasso reappeared in her right hand and she was gone. Roger looked across the room to where Linda was standing, the huge black dog tucked in right behind her legs for protection.
‘Seems we have the answer to Jasper’s discipline problems.’ They both laughed. Roger’s mirth was tempered by the fact that his sock was sticking now out of a hole in the toe of one shoe. ‘I must have a word with you, my friend.’ The dog affected to look suitably chastened, but fooled neither of them.
Transferring his attention back to the desk, he spotted something propped up right at the back. It was a light-blue envelope. On the top left was the crest, with which he was beginning to become quite familiar. It cropped up all over the manor on plates, ashtrays, books and even toilet seats: McKinnon Marine and the crossed anchors. Then he saw, to his surprise, that the envelope itself was addressed to him, Professor Roger Alastair McKinnon Dalby. He picked it up, noting the insertion of his mother’s maiden name, which he had never used. The paper was stiff, heavy and a bit dusty. It had obviously been waiting there for some considerable time. The handwriting was spidery and untidy. It could have been that of a child, but he felt pretty sure it was that of an old man. He slipped his finger under the flap and tore it open. He was not wrong. There was a single sheet of paper inside, again written by the same shaky hand. It was dated five years earlier.
My Dear Nephew
By the time you read this, I will have succumbed to this damn illness, lost my mind and then passed on. The manor will be yours and I hope you love the place as I have done. Please look after the staff who are all, in their way, loyal and devoted friends. There is but one cloud upon the horizon, about which I should warn you: George Jennings.
My former business partner at MKM is an unmitigated scoundrel and rogue. He cannot contest my will – my lawyers have seen to that – but I would not put it past him to attempt more direct means of obtaining what is without question neither legally nor morally his. He cheated me for more than fifty years and finally paid the price. Do not let him try the same again with you.
I advise you to beware of George Jennings and any of his line. The man is unworthy of trust and a potential threat to any of my family. The company’s solicitor, Adam Heslop, of Heslop Greaves of London will be able to tell you more.
It is my fervent hope that I will meet your dear mother, my beloved sister, where I am going and that you and your family will enjoy a long, happy and trouble-free life.
Yours affectionately
The Black Sheep
Eustace
Roger passed the note across to Linda without a word. As she was reading it in her turn, he considered the implications. This former partner might be a threat – Eustace had been quite clear in his choice of vocabulary. What sort of threat might he pose? Legal, apparently not, but the solicitor in London would no doubt shed more light on that. Financial, it was hard to see how anybody could take away the manor and the houses in London, which were the source of Roger’s now considerable income. Physical, unlikely if he had been in partnership with Eustace for fifty years. That would make him in his eighties, if not older. It would not take Bruce Lee to fend off an assault from an octogenarian.
He looked across at Linda as she picked up the phone. The afternoon sun was shining through her mop of blond hair and even, he tore his eyes away, through the linen of her blouse. He ran his hands through his own hair and collected himself as he listened to her voice.
‘Yes please. Heslop Greaves, solicitors in London. Yes, G R E A V E S, like the footballer. Thank you.’ She glanced at him and, in response to his nod, dialled the number. ‘Hello, would it be possible to speak to Mr Adam Heslop, please? Thank you. Professor Roger Dalby from Toplingham. Thank you.’ She passed the receiver across to him. A lady’s voice at the other end asked him what it was in connection with. He replied with his uncle’s name. A few seconds later, he was put through.
‘Adam Heslop, good afternoon.’ The voice was cordial.
‘Yes, hello.’ Roger collected his thoughts. ‘My name is Roger Dalby and I am the nephew of the late Eustace McKinnon. He, or at least his company, McKinnon Marine, was one of your clients. I have been instructed to contact you.’ He paused, trying to phrase his next words carefully, but the solicitor saved him the trouble.
‘Good afternoon, Professor Dalby. You have just opened your uncle’s letter, I presume.’ Roger murmured agreement. Heslop was clearly very conversant with the case.
‘It was written, to the best of my knowledge, four or five years ago, when the doctors first diagnosed him as suffering from Alzheimer’s. Alas it turned out to be a fairly aggressive form of the disease. He was very concerned to set his affairs in order before the onset of dementia and any undesirable symptoms it might produce. He and I had quite a bit of contact around that time. Our firm has acted for the company almost since its foundation. He was especially concerned about the possibility that his ex-partner might rear his ugly head once more.’
Roger’s ears pricked up.
‘I am pleased to tell you that things have moved on since then. I think a meeting would be in order all the same. Will you come up to see me, or would you like me to come down to the West Country?’
Roger immediately agreed to travel up to London two days later, and a time was agreed. Before hanging up, he could not help asking a final question. ‘You mention that things have moved on with regard to his former partner. Might there still be a risk from him?’ The answer came as a considerable relief.
‘Not unless you believe in spiritualism or reincarnation, Professor Dalby. The gentleman in question died over a year ago, but I’m afraid your uncle’s mental state had deteriorated so badly by then, that he was unaware of it. I look forward to seeing you.’
Roger replaced the phone and smiled at Linda. ‘The other chap has died as well.’ She smiled back, considerably relieved. She then settled down alongside him to go through the remaining contents of the desk in detail. The dog, not to be left out, settled down with the Yellow Pages. By the time they spotted what he was doing, his corner of the room looked like the aftermath of a tickertape parade.
