The Room on the Second Floor
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Upon turning right round, he found himself face to face with a very small, wiry, white-haired man. He was probably in his seventies, or even older. His arthritic hands were holding a broom handle, pointed in his direction. A slightly sheepish expression began to creep across the old freckled face, as he realised who he was dealing with. Now it was his time to clear his throat.
‘By all that is holy, so that’s who you are, sir. And me about to blow your innards to kingdom come. Lucky this thing wasn’t loaded. You might have found yourself trying to shovel yards of intestines off the kitchen wall and back into your abdominal cavity!’
He proffered the broom to Duggie, who took it from his hands. He snapped it neatly across his thigh, before tossing it into the corner out of sight. As the old man extended the hand of peace towards his future employer, he noted the look in Duggie’s eyes.
‘Patrick O’Sullivan at your service.’
Duggie took the proffered hand and shook it formally. He kept it in his, as he stared the old Irishman square in the eye. Patrick dropped his gaze. He had seen enough hard men in his time to realise that his hoax could well have backfired on him. Then his hand was released, and Duggie was all sweetness and light.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Patrick. I must say how impressed I was at your courage in accosting a potential burglar armed only with your wits. I can see that you are a truly committed member of staff and worthy of trust and responsibility.’
A smile spread across the old man’s face. ‘Pleased to be of service, sir. It’s a relief to me that I didn’t end up strewing your vital organs across the kitchen floor.’
‘And to me.’ Duggie’s reply was terse. The old man hurried on.
‘And please call me by my familiar name just like my beloved mother, brothers and close friends.’
‘Paddy, would it be?’ Duggie was not taking too much of a stab in the dark which, thinking about it, was what he had narrowly avoided.
‘It would indeed, sir. Fancy you guessing my name now. Sure and as long as my atria and my ventricles keep pumping, it will be a pleasure to spend the next five decades working alongside a bright and worthy gentleman such as your good self.’
Christ, thought Duggie, fifty years would take him well past the telegram from the queen and into the Guinness Book of Records. ‘And what is your position in this establishment?’
‘Well…’ There was a dramatic pause, probably occasioned by the Irishman being faced with a question rarely asked of him. ‘I would be what you might call a general factotum, Jack of all trades and general passepartout, in the sense that I would normally be carrying out all such tasks that do not automatically fall within the remit of the other staff members here at the manor.’ He smiled hopefully.
Duggie wisely decided not to dig too much further. There would be time for that later. With a clap of his hand on the old man’s shoulder, he took his leave and set out on his tour of inspection.
He walked slowly, the mug still in his hand, gradually allowing his blood to settle. He marvelled at the sheer size of the place. No doubt at all that it would make a great country club. He sipped what little was left of his champagne, feeling more than slightly debauched to be drinking champagne at the time when most people were contemplating their coffee break. Presumably one of Paddy’s tasks that did not automatically fall within the remit of the other staff members was that of ensuring that the contents of the cellar did not go to waste. That, too, would be dealt with later.
The idea of getting into something completely new appealed to him. His had been a chequered career. First he had tried accountancy then, after a somewhat hasty departure from Messrs Smith, Endicott, Loveless and Joyce, he joined the Royal Marines. He spent a number of years in the service, much of it overseas, doing a variety of things, some of which he could talk about. Much, though, he kept to himself.
After leaving, once the wounds had healed, he had tried various jobs, until he hit upon estate agency. He had turned out to be a very good estate agent. ‘Seller of fridges to Eskimos,’ was the way his boss had described him at last year’s Christmas party. There was no doubt he could sniff out a sale better than anyone else in the firm. He felt sure it would come as a blow to them when he handed in his notice. And, he thought with great satisfaction, as he pushed through the monumental carved doors into the formal dining room, he would do that very shortly. Just as soon as he and Roger had agreed terms for his future employment as boss of the country club.
What should he call himself? Manager had leapt to his lips during his encounter with Paddy, but was that the right one? Director? Chief Executive? Yes, CEO sounded good. He would go for that.
The staircase to the first floor led up from the hallway. This was to be Roger’s private apartment, so Duggie pressed on up to the second floor.
Corridors led off to left and right and a seemingly never-ending series of doors opened onto high-ceilinged bedrooms, some with four-poster beds and enormous wardrobes. Duggie wondered to himself, as he walked down the corridors, if there were some way he could make profitable use of all this space. The big reception rooms downstairs, the kitchens, the tennis courts and sports facilities outside were of immediate usefulness, but the upstairs would need thought.
He walked out through a glazed door onto the flat roof. The value of the lead on the roof alone would be more than most people’s annual income, his included, he calculated wryly. Lucky, lucky man that Roger.
They had known each other for over thirty years, having met at primary school. The death of Roger’s parents had brought them even closer together, although their chosen careers had diverged quite dramatically. Not, he thought to himself, that you could really apply the term ‘chosen career’ to his own series of jobs, apart from the ten years in the Marines. With Roger it had been history, history, history all the way.
He was admiring the extent of the grounds surrounding the manor when his attention was suddenly drawn down to the car park directly below him. A big blue Volvo drew up. The back door was thrown open and a familiar figure with a blond ponytail shot out. It was Linda. She hurried round to open the tailgate. To his amazement, no sooner had it opened, than something the size and appearance of a black bear shot out of the back of the car and propelled her into a rhododendron bush. Spotting Roger emerging from the driver’s seat, he decided to go down and investigate.
On his way through the kitchen, he deposited his now-empty mug without setting eyes on Paddy. He was presumably somewhere behaving as general factotum, Jack of all trades and general passepartout, whatever that involved. Duggie had a shrewd idea that the answer was, not a lot.
Chapter 5
‘Here, Jasper. Steady boy. Good dog.’
Roger didn’t have much experience with dogs. In consequence, he was unsure of the correct terminology when trying to rescue a maiden in distress. Emerging from the car, he found his newly acquired mongrel cross of Labrador, Alsatian and, quite possibly, wolf, tangled up in the bush on top of Linda. Her head and shoulders were completely obscured by a mass of black fur. So much for not wanting a big dog. Her feet were kicking and muffled cries of protest emerged from the undergrowth.
‘Good dog, Jasper.’ He went over to lend a hand. The three of them were just emerging from the bush in various states of dishevelment, when they were joined by Duggie.
‘Now, now, Rog. Rolling in the bushes with your staff is taking the lord of the manor thing a bit far, you know. Leave the poor girl alone. Whoa…down boy!’
He missed seeing the rush of blood to their faces, as the new arrival threw itself at him in wild and effusive greeting. This time it was his turn to find himself in the undergrowth.
‘For Christ’s sake, Roger. What is this thing? A bloody grizzly? It’s enormous!’ The dog would have leapt on him again, except for deciding that it had to sit down urgently, and scratch its right ear with a hind leg. Roger took advantage of the brief truce to clip on the lead and brace himself in readiness for the next round.
‘Douglas, meet Jasper. Jasper, meet Douglas.’ Linda was in fine spirits, in spite of her tousled hair and flushed complexion. Her eyes sparkled in a way that had Duggie thinking back nostalgically to Tina Pound. A credit to the Geography Department and, if he were honest, the best thing to happen to him for years. Tearing himself away from his recollections, he reached out and stroked the big, heavy head with his hand. Miraculously, this seemed to do the trick. Within seconds, the great beast had rolled onto its back and was rhythmically treading water with one leg while he tickled its tummy.
‘Oh, Douglas. You must have magic fingers.’ Linda was impressed, as was Duggie at her choice of very much the same words used by Tina only a few hours previously. The net result had been discarded clothes all over his bedroom floor, and a series of damp patches on his sheets. Luckily, his caresses had the opposite effect upon their four-legged friend. The dog calmed down remarkably, until he was able to walk in a fairly civilised manner with them up to the front door. After a struggle, this yielded to Roger’s key. They stepped into the echoing building.
Duggie told them of his brush with death by broomstick half an hour previously. ‘Are there any other would-be assassins lurking round here I should know about?’
Roger looked a little sheepish. ‘I have to confess that I’m not terribly sure who works here.’ He stretched his arms out helplessly. ‘You see, the deeds don’t mention that sort of thing. I’m assuming the full details are in the desk in the office. Unfortunately the desk itself is locked, and I have not been able to locate the key. The only person I’ve spoken to here was on the telephone and, apart from a strong Irish accent, I can’t even tell you his name.’
‘That would be Paddy, the fastest broom in the west.’
Roger led them through the vast entrance hall and up the magnificent staircase to the study on the first floor.
The desk was an enormous roll-top affair, made of a dark wood that could have been mahogany. It was freshly polished and dusted, as was the door handle. Duggie took a long look around while Roger gave the lock a serious shaking. Linda did her best to stop the dog from jumping on top of it. The bookshelves were packed with leather-bound volumes. Apart from worthy fiction, there were useful works of non-fiction, including a variety of atlases, nautical tables for seemingly every port in the world, and bound copies of the Lloyds Register since 1800. No sign of a key.
‘I suppose you could force it open. But it would be a shame to damage such a whopping great piece of furniture. Maybe one of the staff knows where the key is…’ Duggie’s voice tailed off. Then he had a thought. ‘Wait a minute, there is at least our friend Patrick, assuming I can find him again. He should know who else is employed here. Let me go and look for him.’
He turned and made his way out of the door, followed by the others. He led them back in the direction of the kitchen. They had only gone a few yards before he was very nearly tripped up by Jasper, the giant hound. The three of them watched, aghast, as the dog sprinted off down the highly polished wooden floor, gaining speed along the way.
Unfortunately, not only did the dog not know where the kitchens were, he was travelling far too fast on the parquet floor. In consequence he failed to negotiate the right-angle bend at the end of the corridor. They watched in horror as he lost his footing and slid sideways, hopelessly out of control, before smashing into an imposing grandfather clock. The clock, solid as it was, did not stand a chance. There was a thunderous crash. What the inventory had referred to as an immaculate example of the seventeenth-century horologist’s art was reduced to matchwood, and the dog to stunned immobility.
‘Bloody hell.’
Duggie hastened down the corridor towards the scene of devastation and surveyed the remains. No question, the clock was a complete write-off. The fine-precision mechanism had shed springs and cogs all over the floor. The face was in three separate pieces, surrounded by a sea of broken glass. As for the wooden case, it would only be of use as firewood. There was, however, a surprisingly solid square structure still intact in the midst of the carnage. He bent down and picked up a finely carved and evidently ancient wooden chest. It was about the size of a shoe-box. The initials T T had been professionally carved into the lid. He noticed that the impact had torn the brass hinges from their mountings, although the lock on the front seemed undamaged. He turned and proffered it to Roger.
‘The treasure of Toplingham maybe?’ He smiled hopefully. ‘Or at least a few good cigars. By the way,’ he surveyed the disaster area round their feet. ‘I hope you took out insurance.’
Roger was more concerned with trying to prevent the dog from lacerating his paws on the broken glass that littered the corridor. He passed the box across to Linda without a word and stepped gingerly over to a mercifully subdued Jasper.
‘Come on, Crusher. Let’s get you away from here and into the kitchen.’ Hand firmly clenched on the dog’s collar, he led them down the stairs once more. They walked along to the kitchen, and he only released his grip when the door behind them was firmly shut. The dog sat down meekly and allowed Roger to check his paws for splinters, and to remove a handful of antique springs and sprockets from his fur.
‘Roger…’ Duggie and he both turned as one. Linda’s voice was unusually excited. ‘Look…What do you think of this?’
She had lifted the lid off the little wooden box, and was looking down at the contents. Both men leant towards her. A heavy gold signet ring lay on top of a sheaf of papers. Engraved in the gold were the same letters, T T. Among the papers was what looked like a piece of parchment. Alongside them was a heavy bunch of keys. Their eyes met.
‘Key to the desk?’
Roger reached out to take the box from Linda. He set it down on the kitchen table. She was thrilled at the discovery. She took his right arm in her hands and pulled herself tight up against him. He found it hard to concentrate, but he tried.
‘This looks seriously old. Hundreds and hundreds of years, I would think. Even the keys look ancient.’
‘So who was Mr T T, do you think?’ Duggie lifted the ring and weighed it in his hand. ‘He liked a bit of bling, that’s for sure.’
Roger pulled himself together, basking in the feel of Linda’s body crushed up against him. The destruction of a priceless antique seemed a small price to pay for the pleasure of feeling her soft warmth alongside him.
‘I’m not sure. The deeds show this estate as being of medieval origin. As far as I know, Uncle Eustace bought the place some time between the wars. From whom, I really don’t know. Maybe the documents in here will help us.’ He looked down at the papers and parchment. He felt Linda tighten her grip even more in anticipation. Her contact stiffened his resolve. He reached down and pulled the papers and parchment out.
‘What do they say?’ Duggie was equally fascinated.
Roger’s professional instincts were aroused as he felt the unmistakable sensation of parchment in his hands. He held it up to the light and nodded contentedly.
‘Dog skin.’
Jasper looked up from Paddy’s broken broomstick, which he had already reduced to a further four or five pieces. The others also looked on expectantly.
‘Good-quality stuff. In fact, in the Middle Ages, the very best parchment you could get hold of was dog skin. There are no holes in dog skin for pores, you see. So dogs can’t sweat. That’s why they spend so much time with their tongues out, panting loudly.’
Bang on cue, Jasper spat out the broom handle and gave a reasonable impression of a steam train.
‘As a result, this parchment is as smooth as you can get, but pricey. Whoever wrote this was no ordinary commoner. No laundry list this, for sure.’ He squinted at it. The ink had faded with the passage of the centuries, but by holding it to the light, he managed to make out the words. ‘Latin. Not pure imperial Latin, but more likely something more recent. Now, let me think.’
This was exactly the kind of academic challenge he revelled in. Both of them could clearly see his enthusiasm grow.
‘When the Roman Empire disintegrated, Britain was invaded by the Saxons. They would all have spoken Anglo-Saxon and over the next centuries that would have extended to official documents. Latin was only reintroduced as the language of government after the Norman conquest in 1066. So I am guessing that this is going to date to the eleventh or twelfth centuries. If only I could read the date.’ He squinted across the surface of the parchment.
‘Official document? How official?’ Linda showed no sign of relinquishing her grip on him, but was clearly interested in their find.
‘Very official, by the look of it.’ He blew dust off the surface and held it closer to the window, where the mid-morning sun shone in like a spotlight. ‘Unless I am mistaken, the seal at the bottom is royal. This is a letter from the king.’
‘The King of England?’ Linda was impressed. He hardly heard her. He found that by tilting the paper, so that the sun’s rays shone obliquely across the page, he could read the words quite easily.
‘How fascinating. It seems that it is dated 13th July 1131. And I was right in my assumption. The king did indeed sign it. Here, do you see his name?’ Duggie and Linda could see nothing but a blur, so they took his word for it. ‘King Henry of the House of Normandy. That would be Henri Beauclerc, one of the sons of William the Conqueror, if my memory serves me right.’
He concentrated on the Latin. He muttered to himself as he followed the lines across and down the page, until he reached the end. Then he blinked, re-read the last lines and then roared with laughter. The others, dog included, looked at him curiously.
‘It says…’ He stopped to blow his nose and wipe his eyes, while his outburst of laugher subsided into a subdued chuckle. ‘It says, in recognition of the magnificent hospitality afforded to his royal highness by Arthur of Toplingham and his retinue, it is hereby decreed that this manor shall henceforth and in perpetuity be licensed to carry on…’ He paused and looked across at the others in disbelief. ‘He uses the words ad praeclarum quaestum meretricium faciendum, which translates as something like, for the admirable purpose of making meretricious gain.’
Seeing the lack of comprehension on their faces, he explained. ‘Meretricious is the adjective that goes with the noun “prostitution”. I do believe this decree means that Toplingham Manor is a fully licensed house of ill repute. Licensed by royal decree, no less.’ The other two stared at him open-mouthed.
‘A knocking shop?’ Duggie couldn’t believe his ears.
‘A brothel. Just imagine that.’ Linda was equally shocked.
‘How amazing. I must write to the British Journal of Medieval Studies about this at once. How fascinating.’ He paused, deep in thought. ‘I wonder if it really was active in plying its trade in those days, and how long it went on for. I wonder whether, when Oliver Cromwell was going round closing down all those sorts of places in the seventeenth century, he might have missed this one. A royal decree in perpetuity is a pretty solid document. Who knows if it would really hold water today. It’s almost worth running by the legal bods at the university.’
As his voice tailed off, Linda gave him a disapproving look. She raised an eyebrow.
‘Were you thinking of going into business? Surrounding yourself with painted harlots, perhaps?’
For one unforgettable moment, a graphic vision of Linda burst into Roger’s head. She was dressed in high heels, stockings and suspenders, a come-hither expression on her face. She was leaning provocatively in an open doorway, her lace-gloved arm stretching up above her head, her mouth…
‘Roger, are you all right?’ The concern in her voice cut into his reverie. He came up for air like a drowning man.
‘What? Me? Yes, I’m fine thanks.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I was just thinking about something.’ Mercifully she did not ask what.
‘You were mentioning the possible legality of the parchment.’
He had no doubt whatsoever that the wisest course of action now was for him to consign that particular conundrum to the waste bin, or at least the files. Any more of those titillating visions could seriously damage his health, he had no doubt. He decided to leave well alone.
‘Who knows? I think it best to leave well alone. We’ll get the parchment framed and hang it on the wall.’
‘What about the other papers?’ Duggie lifted one of the sheets. He was confronted with a tight mass of text in longhand, no punctuation or paragraph divisions visible. He passed it over to Roger who, on the other hand, had little trouble in deciphering it.
‘Ah…the answer to one mystery. This is actually written in English, old English. It’s a royal licence granting full grazing, hunting and fishing rights, as well as those other rights as specified by royal decree.’ He looked up with a grin. ‘I think we now know what they are. It is in favour of Thomas of Toplingham in, wait a minute, 1576. I think we may have a candidate for the owner of the ring.’
He beamed at them, the thrill of history coming to life in his hands, almost equal to that of Linda hanging onto him. Alas, just as the thought came to him, she detached herself. Distractedly, she bent down and started to pick up the bits of broom handle, spread around the kitchen.
Roger had to settle for the thrill of history.
‘So that means that the manor was still operating as a house of ill-repute four hundred years later than the royal decree.’ Duggie was still coming to terms with the discovery. Somewhere in the back of his mind, thoughts stirred.
‘You’re right, Duggie. And, if it was still going in the sixteenth century, who knows? Maybe it carried on right up to more modern times?’
Now it was Duggie’s turn to fantasise. In his case, it was of a string of bedroom doors, all open, all looking inviting. He was walking down the corridor, looking inside each one. On every bed there was a sexy, semi-clad beauty, beckoning invitingly. Strangest of all, they all bore Tina’s face. He shook himself out of his reverie. God, it must be love.
Roger, unaware of his friend’s moment of damascene enlightenment, sifted through the other papers. These were all deeds of ownership of houses and farms. ‘Certainly our friend Thomas of Toplingham and his descendants were very wealthy people. Very wealthy indeed.’
‘Good to know you’re keeping up the tradition, Rog.’
Chapter 6
Duggie handed in his notice that afternoon. Roger had been more than generous with the financial package and Duggie felt like celebrating. He called Tina, and took her out for dinner. As they drank champagne and ate oysters, he related the events of the day to her. She was impressed.
‘How exciting! Ancient manuscripts. And the manor was really a house of ill repute?’ She swallowed another oyster, and followed it with a sip of champagne. She knew this was going to be a very special night. ‘So there must have been hanky panky going on all over the house, maybe even in Roger’s study?’ She giggled at the thought. Roger and hanky panky were not words that often appeared together in the same sentence.
‘Except for the fact that the present-day manor was only built in 1817, along with virtually everything else in the place.’ Duggie wasn’t an estate agent for nothing.
‘And so handsome with it.’ Tina was still thinking about hanky panky with Roger. She raised her eyes and looked across the table affectionately. ‘Present company excepted, of course. Seems downright unfair, doesn’t it? And, of course, the good bit is that he doesn’t seem to realise it. If he wasn’t already taken, I might consider joining the queue myself. There’s something about rich, handsome men.’