Secrets at Toplingham Manor

T A Williams

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Previously published as The Room on the Second Floor

Copyright © T A Williams 2014

T A Williams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472074508

Version date: 2018-07-23

TREVOR WILLIAMS

lives in Devon with his Italian wife. He lived and worked in Switzerland, France and Italy, before returning to run one of the best-known language schools in the UK. He has taught people from all over the world, among them Arab princes, Brazilian beauty queens and Italian billionaires. He speaks a number of languages and has travelled extensively. He has eaten snake, live fish and alligator. A Spanish dog, a Russian bug and a Korean parasite have done their best to eat him in return. He has written historical novels, humorous books and thrillers. His hobby is long-distance cycling, but his passion is writing. You can follow him on Twitter, @TAWilliamsBooks, or visit his website: www.tawilliamsbooks.com

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Epilogue

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

My thanks to Tony Stevenson and David Bricknell for their classical and legal expertise

And thanks, as ever, to my editor, Clio Cornish, whose input is always so valuable.

With thanks to Mariangela and Christina for their support

With love

HENRICUS dei gratia rex Angliae dux Normannorum praemio pro hospitio abundanti sibi praebito ab Arturo Toplinghamensi necessario DECERNIT ut manerium Toplingham in Devoniae comitatu in perpetuum ad praeclarum quaestum meretricium faciendum iure ac merito nemine obstante neque impediente permaneat et hic subscribit die xiii julii anno regni nostri xxxi.

Chapter 1

The campus clock struck four. She went over to the post tray and started collecting the day’s letters. As she bent forward, she sensed eyes on her. Turning round, her heart sank. She saw it was Edgar Lean, lurking at the open door of her office. She wasn’t the sort of girl who would ever want to be rude to anybody, but his habit of sneaking up on her had started to give her the creeps. Nevertheless, she managed to summon up a weak smile. Confrontation wasn’t her way.

‘Afternoon, Linda.’

‘Good afternoon, Edgar.’

‘Anything I can help you with?’ He was staring at her fixedly. His eyes were wide open, unblinking.

‘No, I’m fine thanks.’ As always, she felt uncomfortable in his presence. She nodded towards the pile of letters. ‘Sorry I can’t stop and talk. I’m afraid I’m busy.’ She turned her back on him, hoping he would take the hint.

All was quiet for a minute or two. Then, behind her, she heard steps. There was a movement and, to her horror, she felt a touch on her bottom. She squeaked with indignation and spun round.

But Edgar Lean had left. In his place, she was confronted with the tall figure of Roger Dalby, an expression of embarrassment on his face. Now, he was a very different kettle of fish. Her indignation left her and she gave him a warm smile.

‘Hi, Linda, sorry if I startled you.’ He was carrying a large cardboard box. The dog-eared label read, 12th-century records. The dust-covered box looked little younger than the contents. The corner that had bumped into her gaped open. Ancient sticky tape looked to be the only thing holding it together.

‘Sorry about that. I wasn’t really paying attention.’

Nothing new there. He rarely left the twelfth century. She leant forward to give him a hand. Just at that very moment, the box finally gave way.

‘Oh, blast.’

Papers cascaded onto the floor. He dropped to his knees and started collecting them up again.

‘Here, let me help you.’

She knelt down beside him and started picking up grubby old files, marked variously Knights Templar, Bernard of Clairvaux and Cistercians. He raised his eyes towards her. Her face was little more than a foot from his. So close, he could smell her perfume. For one crazy moment he wondered what would happen if he were to throw his arms around her and kiss her.

But that was not his way, either.

The papers all collected, she stood up again.

‘Roger.’

He looked up sheepishly from the floor.

‘This letter has just come in. It looks important. Maybe you should open it straightaway.’ She held it out to him as he pulled himself to his feet. He carefully placed his papers on the table before taking the letter from her, relishing the slight physical contact as their fingers touched.

The long, stiff envelope was marked Private and Confidential. To be opened by the recipient in person.

‘Very formal. Who on earth can that be from?’ He was puzzled.

‘It seems to be a firm of solicitors, if you look on the back of the envelope.’ She suddenly blushed. ‘Not that I’ve been…I mean I wouldn’t…’ Her voice tailed off, but he was quick to reassure her.

‘Of course not, Linda. Now let’s see…um… Henderson Brothers and Healy. A local firm. Definitely legal by the looks of it. Here’s hoping it’s not a summons.’

He took the proffered paper knife and carefully made an incision. Inside were a number of folded sheets. He opened the covering letter and read it. As he did so, his eyes widened. He broke into reading out loud.

‘Acting in accordance with the wishes of Mr Eustace McKinnon (deceased), as expressed in his last will and testament… My word, I don’t believe it…Toplingham Manor…all the land and appurtenances… Good lord, Linda, Uncle Eustace has died and he’s…he’s…’ His voice faltered. She leapt towards him protectively.

He slumped into his chair and took a big gulp of air before continuing in shocked tones, ‘I do believe Uncle Eustace has left me a fortune.’

Linda stood beside the chair and debated whether a peck on the cheek would be appropriate, given the circumstances. All her instincts were crying out to throw her arms around his neck and smother him in kisses, but, as ever, she controlled herself. In the end, she contented herself with a few words of encouragement.

The news went round the university like wildfire. Within a very few days, everybody had heard of Roger’s good fortune and the way this would affect his plans for the future. And theirs. Not everybody was pleased.

‘You’ve heard the news?’ Amanda could see she had.

‘Mmh.’ Rosie was staring miserably into the remains of her cappuccino. Term had officially finished and the all the undergraduates had fled. Along with a few other postgrads, the two girls were just about the only people in the coffee bar. ‘I heard yesterday. Linda told me. It won’t be the same place without him.’

‘Yes, and she’s going too.’

‘Linda? Leaving the uni?’ This was news to Rosie. ‘What’s she going to do?’

‘What do you think? She’s going with the prof. He needs somebody to look after him. He’d probably starve to death if she wasn’t there to remind him to eat. We all know that.’ Roger Dalby’s all-consuming obsession with his medieval saint was common knowledge around the campus. People still recounted the story of him walking into the fountain while trying to decipher a medieval parchment. He splashed straight across and out the other side, but he managed it without getting the parchment wet.

‘You make him sound like an old codger. He’s only thirty-eight.’ There was a slight pause. ‘And he’s an Aries.’

‘How on earth do you know that? Have you been stalking the poor man?’

Rosie nodded, unrepentant. ‘University records are open to the public, you know. Anyway, I’d take that job any day.’ Her face assumed a dreamy expression. ‘I’d like to look after all his needs.’ She sighed. ‘And a few of my own.’

‘Well, it looks like Linda’s beaten you to it. Well, maybe not all his needs, mind you. I still don’t think there’s anything going on between those two. But you’ve only got a few weeks left to make your move, and then he’s off.’

‘Doesn’t give me a lot of time. There must be some way to attract his attention.’

‘You could strip naked and sprawl across his desk with a copy of Vitae Sancti Bernardi Abbatis covering your modesty.’

‘Two problems there, Mandy. First, his desk is so covered with piles of paper, he wouldn’t see me. Second, there’s only one copy in the university and Ed’s had it for months.’

‘I’m not so sure I would want any book Edgar’s touched lying on my naked body.’ Amanda shuddered at the thought.

‘Oh, he’s not so bad, really. Underneath that geeky exterior, there lurks a geeky interior.’ Both girls laughed.

‘Talk of the devil.’ Amanda saw him first. Edgar Lean was shambling towards them, dead to the world. His headphones blotted out the noise of the coffee bar and his eyes, as usual, rarely lifted from his toes. ‘Why don’t you ask him for the book back? If you like, I’ll tell him what you want it for.’

‘Don’t you dare… Hi, Ed, how’s it going?’

‘Er, yes, hi, Rosie, Amanda. Um, I’m fine, thanks.’ He shrugged the heavy bag off his shoulder and stood it on the floor at his feet. Reaching up, he pulled out his earphones. He was looking even more lugubrious than normal. ‘To be honest, I’m not really fine. I’ve just heard that Roger Dalby is leaving.’ He ran the back of his hand across his nose and wiped it absently against his jeans.

Amanda made a mental note to avoid shaking his hand. ‘They’ll find you another supervisor, Ed. Don’t you worry.’

‘Yes, but there’s nobody who knows the twelfth century like him. I’ll be lost without him.’

‘So will I.’ Rosie’s voice was little more than a murmur. She rallied. ‘But it’s all change in the School of Medieval Studies. Did you know Linda’s going too?’

This was news to Edgar Lean ‘She’s what?’

Amanda watched an expression of horror flood across his face as she explained. ‘She told me herself. She’s been offered a job by the gorgeous Roger as his personal assistant. She leaves with him next month.’

Edgar looked so downhearted, Amanda felt she had to try to cheer him up.

‘Come on, Ed. It’s not that bad. These things happen. Even if Linda’s not going to be around, there are plenty more fish in the sea. You’ll find a nice girl.’ She did her best to sound encouraging. Rosie leapt in to help.

‘Yes, and by this time next year you’ll have got your doctorate. Just think, you can tell the girls, “Trust me, I’m a doctor.” You’ll be fighting them off.’

Chapter 2

‘It is quite amazing to think that Bernard of Clairvaux was already an abbot at just twenty-five.’

Linda sighed inwardly. Goodbye, twenty-first century, hello, twelfth. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a couple of inquisitive heads peering at them out of the ballroom door. No doubt they were wondering where the guest of honour had got to. The band had stopped playing. It was quite clear that he was expected on the stage.

‘Roger… Please…’ She tried to drag him away again, but without success.

At that moment, they were joined by the immaculately groomed form of his friend, Douglas Scott. She gave him a look of supplication. For once she was delighted, and relieved, that he was there with them. The fact that, as recently as the previous day, she had described Duggie to her mother as being a bad influence, was something she now conveniently overlooked. He took the hint and moved in to do his bit. She gave him a broad smile of encouragement and gratitude. If anybody could snap Roger out of it, it was Duggie.

‘Wojtiva was still cutting his teeth in the monastery at Plovdiv at that age. Bernard was…’

‘For God’s sake, Rog, give it a break. Your public awaits you.’ Duggie materialised by his side and reinforced the message by removing Roger’s wine glass from his unresisting hand. He took him firmly by the elbow. ‘They are all here for you. For Christ’s sake, do them the courtesy of dragging yourself into the present-day at least for a few minutes.’

Linda nodded approvingly. She moved aside to let Duggie guide him out into the main body of the room. Both of them looked very smart. She particularly liked Roger’s new dark-blue suit. Mind you, the choice of colour had been her suggestion. As he passed her, Duggie accorded her an approving glance. Not for the first time, he reflected that with a change of wardrobe, a visit to a decent hairdresser, and a bit more self-confidence, Linda could so easily be a real stunner. For her part, she remained as unaware of her erotic potential as Roger Dalby appeared to be of the twenty-first century.

She followed them, as they passed through the ornate oak doors, into the formal ballroom. She looked around in awe. A sea of faces had turned towards them. She dropped her eyes and took a deep breath. A great many guests had been invited to wish Professor Roger Dalby well in his premature and unexpected retirement at the age of only thirty-eight. Duggie steered him through the crowd towards the far end of the room.

‘Smile, Rog. For God’s sake, smile.’

They reached the stage and Duggie led him up the flight of low steps. Together, they crossed to the centre, where the microphone had been placed. A gradual reduction in the volume of the chatter dropped to almost complete silence. He gave the mike a few sharp taps. The guests turned expectantly towards them.

‘It’s show time, Rog.’ Duggie dragged him to the microphone. ‘And for crying out loud, try to keep it in the twenty-first century. Just for once? OK?’

Roger pulled himself up straight and looked around the grand old ballroom, blinking as he took in the scene before him. The sea of faces shone back at him in the surprisingly bright light cast by the chandeliers. He searched desperately for something to say. His carefully rehearsed speech momentarily eluded his normally phenomenal memory. The inspiring words of Pope Innocent III, as he preached the First Crusade before an adoring crowd at Clermont in 1095, would almost certainly have leapt to his lips. But he managed to remember Duggie’s admonition.

He dug deep.

‘My friends, relatives, colleagues, students…’ He suddenly spotted the bishop and hastily threw in, ‘… my lords. It gives me great pleasure to see you all here tonight.’

Pausing for breath, he looked down to see Duggie nodding encouragingly. Alongside him stood Linda, looking quite wonderful in a light-blue dress that matched the colour of her eyes. She beamed back up at him. He managed a hint of a smile as he ploughed on.

‘It is going to feel strange when I wake up on Monday. After fifteen years at the university, my life will have totally changed. Instead of driving through the rush-hour traffic, I will just have to walk a few steps from my bedroom to my study. Of course, I will miss seeing you all.’

His eyes alighted on the scowling face of Edgar Lean, squeezed in alongside the other postgrads. He really had taken the news badly. Oh, dear. He soldiered on with his speech.

‘Of course, I won’t be completely alone. As many of you will already know, I will still have Linda to look after me.’ He caught sight of her face, now blushing red. He pressed on. ‘Because Linda has agreed to come to work with me. After so many years of having my life arranged by her at the university, I would have felt totally lost without her.’ A ripple of applause ran through the audience. Linda herself looked as though she wanted the boards to part beneath her feet and swallow her up.

When the applause died down, he continued with his speech. Beside Edgar Lean in the front row were the familiar faces of his other postgrads, Amanda and Rosie. He noticed that Rosie was in a dress that displayed a startling amount of bare skin. Somebody should speak to her, before some boy gets the wrong impression, he found himself thinking. He would never understand the caprices of female fashion. Of course, in St Bernard’s time, women would have been covered from head to toe, their hair concealed beneath a wimple. A glance around the ballroom revealed no wimples. With an effort, he returned his attention to his speech.

Linda looked across, disapprovingly, at the redhead. The dress the girl was wearing was so low-cut as to be positively indecent. Rosie was staring in rapt adoration at Roger. For his part, he appeared blissfully unaware of her designs upon him. Linda snorted to herself. There was only one person in this room with any right to have designs on Professor Roger Dalby. And it certainly wasn’t Rosie Barnes.

She returned her attention to Roger. By now, she knew every last freckle, line and dimple on his face. Over the years she had known him, she had dreamt of him in many different costumes, including his present, formal one. Some of her other dreams, she thought with a guilty flush, saw him much less formally clad. Indeed, much less clad altogether. She rubbed her palms surreptitiously down the sides of her dress.

The speech continued, interrupted occasionally by a little polite applause. Duggie slowly retreated into the warmth of the crowd. As he stood and listened, the warmth of the crowd behind him crystallised into the unmistakable contours of the feminine form. This was a subject to which he had devoted almost as many hours of dedicated study as Professor Dalby to his doctoral thesis. Careful not to disturb the other guests, or the flow of the rhetoric from his old friend, Duggie slowly turned. He cast an admiring eye across the source of the warmth, reluctantly raising his gaze to the face above. To his exquisite delight, it did not disappoint.

‘Enchanting, quite enchanting. Douglas Scott. And you are…?’ He smiled warmly as his eyes instinctively flicked back down to that magnificent body, clad only in sheer black silk.

‘Tina. Tina Pound from the Geography Department.’ She gave a mock curtsy. She scrutinised him for a moment. ‘Where are you from? I haven’t seen you on campus.’

‘Not on campus, sweetheart. Not an intellectual, I’m afraid. Can’t read a word of Latin to save my life, but it doesn’t seem to stop me making a living. No, I’m a friend of the groom from way back.’ Tina’s big brown eyes smiled at him. To his surprise, he found he was managing to maintain eye contact far more readily than he would have expected.

‘Groom? That’ll be the day.’

Out of the corner of her eye, Tina had been admiring the handsome figure of Professor Dalby up on the stage. His mop of brown hair curled fashionably as it hit his collar, making him look more like a film star than an academic. And he was all the more desirable for being blissfully unaware of the reaction he aroused among members of the other sex. And quite probably among certain members of his own sex, she reflected with a smile.

‘There’s a line of girls halfway around the university waiting for the prof to invite one of them to the altar. That is, if a certain person doesn’t manage it first. Still, you know him well enough, I’m sure…’

Duggie smiled and nodded. He leant forward to whisper in her ear, taking the opportunity to let his fingers run slowly across the thin black strap over her shoulder. ‘Other things on his mind, I’m afraid. He gets off on things that happened in the Middle Ages, rather than present-day encounters.’ His hand lingered on her warm skin. ‘Not like the rest of us.’

‘So, if you’re not an academic, what do you do for a living, Douglas?’ Tina found she liked the look of this one. She had always had a thing for tough guys. The faint scars on Douglas Scott’s face spoke of an eventful life. ‘Nightclub bouncer, maybe?’ His hand was still on her shoulder. She didn’t mind.

‘Call me Duggie. Everybody does. No, far worse than that, I’m afraid. I sell houses.’

She grimaced. ‘Oh God, that’s disgusting!’ She gave him a broad smile. ‘And I thought this was a posh establishment.’

‘Nothing posh about me, darling.’ He was grinning too.

At that moment, a burst of applause told him that the speech was over.

‘Tina, I’m afraid I have to leave you for a short while. You won’t go anywhere now, will you?’

He slipped regretfully back towards the stage. Tina watched his muscular back depart and reflected how refreshing it was to meet somebody fun for a change. Somehow, most of the folk she met in the Geography Department were so terribly earnest. She decided that this particular bad boy merited closer inspection.

Roger was already off the stage and in the middle of some bumbling apology to Linda for something or other. Duggie cut him short.

‘Come on, Rog, let’s get some more champagne open and get you rat-arsed.’

Linda giggled at the thought, and accompanied the two men across the room. This time Roger managed to behave almost normally. All three of them made a point of stopping to talk to the guests. Both the mayor and the vice-chancellor received the attentions of the man himself. By the time they reached the bar, Linda was feeling more like the hostess than the personal assistant of the host.

As if reading her thoughts, Roger leant over, laid his hand on her arm and whispered, ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Linda.’

She beamed and waited for more. But that was it. This rare moment of natural human affection would, she knew full well, probably have to do her for the next six months. Tomorrow or the next day, he would once more plunge into his labyrinthine world of medieval politics and power struggles. She gave a mental shrug and returned to the task in hand, oblivious to the face of Rosie Barnes in the crowd to their left. The girl was staring bleakly at Roger as he clasped Linda’s arm. The expression of adoration on Roger’s face said it all. Her hopes dashed, Rosie turned back into the crowd, tears in her eyes. She was so upset, she didn’t even register the effect her audacious décolleté was having on every other man in the room.

‘I haven’t seen any of your family, Roger. Have you? Did any of your relations come?’

Linda had been responsible for sending out the invitations, so she knew that the few relatives who had been invited were of the very distant variety.

‘I haven’t seen any.’ Roger took another good look round, just in case. ‘Mind you, I’m not sure I would recognise any of them, even if they did decide to come.’

Duggie appeared with glasses of champagne. He knew Roger and his family better than most. As boys, the two of them had been inseparable. ‘They’re probably miffed that old Uncle Eustace left it all to you. You did have some pretty weird relatives though, didn’t you? What was your cousin’s name? William, wasn’t it? The one who looked like Dracula. He must be hopping mad. Mind you, thinking about it, he’d be like a hundred years old by now. I imagine he’s no longer with us.’

Linda looked across at Roger’s face. He still hadn’t fully come to terms with his great good fortune. Being left a thirty-six room mansion, along with the rental income from a street of Georgian houses in Hampstead, had turned him into a very wealthy man. But he wasn’t making plans to buy a Caribbean island, or a villa in St Tropez. Professor Roger Dalby had other things on his mind. Predictably, his intention was to concentrate entirely on his research into the life of Saint Bernard. Linda was not in the least surprised to hear the B-word on her boss’s lips at that very moment.

‘Champagne was the cradle of civilisation in Bernard’s day, you know. And yet, they never got round to making the sparkling wine itself till the later Middle Ages.’ He was staring down into his full glass of champagne, musing out loud to nobody in particular.

Determined not to let him retreat into the past, Duggie was quick to snap him out of it. ‘Bloody hell, Rog, can’t you think about anything else? So tell me something. Why did they call those big hairy dogs after the old boy then? Surely he didn’t have a tail and a barrel round his neck?’

‘No, of course not. It was the abbey…’ He stopped. Even Professor Roger Dalby knew when he was being made fun of.

‘You could do with a dog in the new house, you know.’ Duggie drained his champagne glass just in time to slip it onto a passing tray and replace it with another. Chivalrously he offered it to Linda, but she waved it away with a light shake of the head. He remembered that she rarely drank. This was something else she had in common with her boss. She turned back to Roger, catching his arm in her eagerness.

‘Oh yes, Roger, get a dog please. It would be such great company.’ Her eyes sparkled and her hand on his arm felt good. Eager to please her, he immediately agreed. In fact, if she had suggested getting a giraffe, his reaction would probably have been the same.

‘Of course. We must have a dog. There is so much land at the new place, we could have a whole pack of them.’

She thrilled at the use of the pronoun we, but made no comment.

‘Will you help me select one, please?’ Delighted to see her nod, he carried on. ‘I suppose we could even consider a Saint Bernard…’ This time both of them groaned as one, so he hastily qualified it with a vague ‘or whatever…’.

Then, to the surprise of both of them, he did not dive back into the Middle Ages.

‘I hardly knew Uncle Eustace at all, you know.’ His voice was low.

‘Did you ever meet him?’ Linda prompted him gently, conscious that personal revelations did not come easy to him. She was rewarded by an unambiguous answer.

‘Only at the funeral.’ He paused to clear his throat. ‘My parents were both killed in a car crash. I was only nineteen. I was halfway through my first year at Cambridge when they had the accident. It all seemed so surreal somehow. One moment I was a normal student in the process of breaking away from my parents and then, overnight, they were dead.’

He swallowed the glass of champagne in one gulp before carrying on. The expression on his face was bleak. It took the thirty-five years of rigorous training in the suppression of her emotions by her Methodist parents to stop Linda from sweeping him into her arms and clutching him to her breast. She did at least grip his arm tightly. Duggie reached out to a passing waitress and replaced the empty glass with another full one. Roger didn’t even notice. He carried on.

‘I didn’t see him in the church. It was outside in the churchyard in the pouring rain. After that awful bit, where you pick up a handful of earth and drop it into the grave, I suddenly felt an arm around my shoulders. A flask of brandy was pushed into my hand. I took a mouthful and turned to see him; a mane of black hair and a beard and moustache like one of the Merovingian kings.’

There was a pause, during which both Linda and Duggie waited for him to veer off, and take refuge in his own private medieval world. But, to their surprise and gratification, he persevered in the modern era.

‘He gave me a hug and told me he was the black sheep of the family. That’s what he said, “the black sheep”. He said he had loved his sister very dearly and regretted the fact he had seen so little of her. Then he kissed me on both cheeks and left without another word. Can’t have been with me for more than thirty seconds. It was only that night I found the hipflask in my pocket. It had McKinnon Marine etched in the side. That was my mother’s maiden name: McKinnon.’ He paused awkwardly, as if regretting this rare glimpse into his personal life.

Both Linda and Duggie, who knew him so well, were struck by this rare insight. This was, however, the end of the revelations. He fell silent. His mind was clearly already heading back to the Middle Ages when Duggie stepped in.

‘A toast.’

He held up his glass in their direction. The erstwhile university professor raised his glass absently. Linda snatched a mineral water from a passing waitress and joined in, unaware of the regret in Roger’s eyes as her hand was removed from his arm. Duggie waxed lyrical.

‘Here’s to your life at Toplingham Manor. May you find happiness and success. No, hang on a minute. You already have. How stupid of me to forget. So, here’s to your life at the manor and happiness and success to the rest of us. All right?’

Their glasses touched, and they drank the health of the lucky man. Then, remarkably, Roger Dalby stayed in the present day. Looking up, he asked the question that had been on his mind since seeing the manor for the first time, a few weeks before.

‘Now what do I do with a damn great house like the manor? Linda and I only need a couple of rooms at most.’ Oblivious to her surge of hope, he continued. ‘And another couple for me to sleep and eat in. I’m still left with over thirty spare rooms, and some of them are huge, as big as this ballroom.’

The crest of the wave of Linda’s emotions crashed back into its trough again. ‘Why don’t you start some kind of business?’ Her voice gave nothing away. ‘Maybe a hotel?’

But she tailed off, realising that even Basil Fawlty would make a better hotelier than Roger. He would no doubt be able to take an order for dinner, but would then most probably disappear into his study for the rest of the day. The customers would be left to starve. Hours later he would be found, looking up some arcane fact to do with his beloved saint. Duggie, however, had a practical solution.

‘A club. That’s what the old place would lend itself to. A private club with leisure facilities and entertainment. After all, there is a decent golf course hidden away in the grounds. All right, it’s a bit overgrown and only nine holes, but even so… And the old squash courts won’t need too much to get them back in operation. Toplingham Country Club. I can see it now.’

His arms were spread out wide, his eyes screwed shut, as he visualised the scene. A tasteful gold-lettered sign, pinned to the stone pillars outside the manor, floodlit at night, naturally. As he did so, his outstretched right hand brushed against something reassuringly warm and soft. He was delighted when he opened his eyes to see Tina Pound, coming over to offer her congratulations to Roger. He treated her to his most engaging smile.

‘Hello again. You’ve come back to me. I assume you know our illustrious host and hostess?’

Linda reddened, but managed a smile at Tina. They knew each other well from the university. ‘Hi, Tina. I didn’t know you and Douglas were friends.’

Duggie was quick to reply on her behalf, his hand catching hers and drawing her closer. ‘We may only have met a few minutes ago, but I feel we know each other so very well already.’ He kissed her bare shoulder affectionately.

Tina gave Linda a smile in return, while gently fending him off. ‘Half man, half octopus. Just my type.’

Linda watched their easy exchange enviously. Somehow they made this relationship thing look so very easy. She glanced across at Roger. As far as establishing a relationship with him was concerned, easy it most certainly wasn’t.

Roger nodded absently towards Tina. His mind was still on the manor, and Duggie’s suggested change of use.

‘All very well, Duggie. The club’s a great idea, but who could run it for me?’ He seemed unexpectedly taken with the idea. ‘Now that I am finally able to concentrate on the definitive history of St Bernard, I can hardly find the time to run a club. I might as well have stayed on in the department. Unless…’ His eyes met Duggie’s and, with an unusual degree of perspicacity, he immediately saw the answer to his question. ‘Unless you would feel like doing it – as a favour to me, Duggie? After all, your background in estate agency is sort of the same field, isn’t it?’

Duggie felt there was little to be gained from pointing out the many differences between selling houses and hospitality management. He settled for a broad smile of acquiescence, and the chance to run his right hand lightly down across the taut buttocks of Tina Pound. She didn’t slap him and he took that as a good sign.

‘Do you know? I think I might well be up for it.’ He sounded very keen.

Tina glanced across at him, a delicious feeling of anticipation warming her. He certainly wasn’t backwards at coming forwards.

‘Does that mean you’d consider giving it a try?’ Roger Dalby was genuinely pleased that his oldest friend might be prepared to help him out. For her part, Linda, despite her reservations about Duggie as a bad influence, could see that he would be a natural for the position.

‘The more I think about it, the better it sounds.’ Duggie was definitely warming to the idea. ‘I’ll give it some thought and get back to you.’

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted. Linda’s smile faded as she saw the scruffy figure of Edgar Lean stagger into view. The grubby lapels of his suit had clearly absorbed almost as much wine as he had. Any inhibitions he might have had, had been drowned by the alcohol.

‘Linda. You’re lovely. Give us a kiss.’ He lurched towards her.

‘Mr Lean, really!’ She affected her sternest voice as she addressed him. He chose to ignore her, raising his hand unsuccessfully to his mouth to stifle a burp.

‘Go on, darling. You know you want to.’

‘Bloody hell, Edgar. What do you think you are doing?’

Linda was impressed by the way Roger sprang to her defence. He gave Edgar Lean an icy glare.

‘Behave yourself, please.’

‘Keep your shirt on, Prof.’ He leered malevolently at him. ‘Only you get to touch the lovely Linda, is that it?’

Roger took a step forward, his temper rising.

Duggie felt it incumbent upon himself to intervene, before the host got embroiled in the fracas that the other man was clearly trying to provoke. Regretfully relinquishing the warmth of Tina Pound, he slipped swiftly across to position himself between the two men. With his broad shoulders turned towards Roger, he spoke to Lean in a friendly voice.

‘I think it might be best if you were to leave now, don’t you? I think you have maybe taken advantage of the hospitality a little too much.’

In return, Lean re-directed his hatred towards him. He hissed. ‘I’m not drunk, you twat. This is between me and?’ Duggie did not let him finish.

‘I’m a peace-loving person. But it’s only fair to warn you that the last person to talk to me like that ended up with a broken jaw.’ He moved a few inches closer and lowered his voice into a confidential whisper. ‘So why don’t you be a good boy and get the fuck out of here now. I really think you have outstayed your welcome.’

There was a brief, stunned, silence before Edgar Lean demonstrated that he was maybe not quite as stupid, or as drunk, as he looked. He turned on his heel and lurched out of the room. Duggie cleared his throat, rearranged his lapels and returned to the waiting presence of Tina. He was gratified to feel her hand grip his bicep. She squeezed it appreciatively.

‘Sure you aren’t a nightclub bouncer? It looked as if you’ve done that before a few times.’

‘Did you really break somebody’s jaw?’ Linda, to her amazement, found herself quite relishing this outpouring of testosterone from the men around her.

‘My God, no.’ Duggie had reverted to type. ‘Not my kind of thing at all. I was just counting on it not being his either.’

Roger, who had driven him to A&E to have his dislocated finger relocated the day after the incident in question, did not disabuse them. Indeed, Roger, over the years, had been with him in several other similar circumstances. If Duggie preferred to be thought of as mild-mannered and peaceable, that was his affair.

‘Nasty little wretch.’ Roger watched the door close behind Lean. ‘And trying to insinuate that I would lay a finger on you, Linda.’

Chance would be a fine thing, she thought wistfully.

Tina from Geography asked the question on all their lips.

‘Who the hell was he, and what on earth was that all about?’ She looked around the others. ‘Just too much to drink, or was there more to it than that?’

‘He’s one of my postgrads.’ Roger was recovering his aplomb. ‘He’s not very happy about my passing him over to another supervisor for his doctorate. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he had an unhealthy interest in Linda.’

‘I thought I could hear the old green-eyed devil. Have you been aware that you have another suitor, Linda?’ Tina smiled at Linda’s discomfiture. Her relationship, or the lack of it, with Roger had been a standing joke across the campus for years. To her delight, Roger jumped in, right on cue, to further demonstrate his lack of awareness.

‘What do you mean, another suitor?’ Turning to Linda he asked, ‘Have you got a suitor?’

Once again Duggie confirmed his credentials as a diplomat, and earned a glance full of gratitude from Linda. He stepped in and steered the conversation into safer territory.

‘Now, Roger, you really should go and devote some time to your guests.’ He glanced around the crowded room. ‘Maybe you could see if you can find second cousin Mabel. As for me, I have to leave now.’ He glanced across at Tina. ‘Something’s just come up.’

As Linda lead Roger back into the throng, Duggie heard her reassuring him. ‘Of course I haven’t got a suitor. Why ever would you think that?’

Duggie turned to Tina and tightened his grip on her.

‘Now, where were we?’

Tina had by now got the measure of him.

‘I seem to remember you had just confessed that you were a social pariah. And yet I’m still here.’ She felt the warmth of his body against hers, and smiled. ‘I’ve always thought the direct approach was best. Why don’t you stop beating about the bush. Drop the corny lines and say what’s on your mind.’ She saw his eyes flick down to her bosom. ‘So, is there something you’d like to get off your chest, Mr Scott?’ She smiled sweetly.

‘And where might I find this bush you would like me to beat about in?’

‘Use your initiative, Duggie.’

She felt herself drawn towards him, until his lips were at her ear.

‘Would you like a shag then, Tina?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

Chapter 3

‘That was your friend Duggie there. Did you see him?’

Linda rarely missed anything, while Roger rarely noticed anything. Unless it was a spelling mistake in a thousand-year-old manuscript.

Roger swung his head to the right. He just spotted Duggie sitting in his old Porsche, waiting for the red light to change. There was no sign of recognition on his face, but maybe the brand-new car Roger was driving was not yet familiar to his friend.

‘He probably doesn’t recognise the car yet.’ Linda, as usual, was on the same wavelength. ‘After all, you’ve only had it a week.’

The new car had been her suggestion. His previous one had been an accident waiting to happen; assuming, of course, that it could be persuaded to start in the first place. They had gone for a sober dark-blue model, comfortable on the inside, but not flashy externally. ‘Not like that red sports car of his!’ She settled back in her seat again. She let her eyes run over the pristine leather and walnut around her. Being with a multi-millionaire definitely had its advantages.

Duggie did not notice them pass. The early morning sun was shining diagonally across his windscreen. He was fascinated as it picked out the clear image left by a pair of bare feet, just above dashboard level. Neat, small, feminine feet, highlighted in a spectrum of colour. He smiled to himself as the lights changed to amber. Roger’s farewell bash had been a very good do, but not a patch on the energetic romp with Tina Pound that had only finished a few hours ago. He stretched and yawned. The lights changed to green, and he accelerated off in the direction of Toplingham Manor, unaware that his future employer had just passed him on his way to the RSPCA.

‘Roger, you do realise that they don’t normally have St Bernard dogs at the RSPCA, don’t you?’ Linda was not quite sure whether his suggestion the previous evening had been in fun or not. He set her mind to rest.

‘Of course. Anyway, I would never want a big dog like that. No, let’s go for a little mutt. But you can choose.’

He cast her a quick glance. She looked as lovely as ever. He actually allowed a sigh to escape his lips.

‘That was a big sigh? Are you tired after the party last night?’ There was a note of concern in her voice. ‘I thought you handled it remarkably well. Did you know? The caterers said there were almost two hundred guests.’

He did not know that. As far as he was concerned, it had been an unavoidable evil that he had survived rather than enjoyed. St Bernard had been reclusive as well. Bernard had no time for social graces. Not for the first time, Roger found himself wondering whether he, too, should have chosen the monastic life, maybe even joining the Cistercians like St Bernard himself.

The notion died stillborn. There were, after all, two major obstacles to his becoming a monk. Firstly, and this was a serious stumbling block, he did not believe in God. Another surreptitious glance across to his left reminded him of the second. Celibacy was a prerequisite for any monk. He knew all too well he would find this impossible. All the same, he reflected grimly, he had been effectively celibate for so long now, he really needed to find the courage to do something about it.

‘I must say, Linda, that the success of the evening was due to you. I would have made a complete hash of organising a do for two hundred people. You are amazing. I really don’t know what I would do without you.’

She sighed.

Their arrival at the Sunny Combe Animal Shelter prevented him from heaping any further praise upon her.

‘Here we are.’

Roger pulled into a tight parking space. They both climbed out of the car, to be assailed by an impenetrable wall of sound; barking, howling and growling. Linda gave him a reassuring smile. She would have taken his hand, except that she felt it would not have been seemly.

Chapter 4

Over on the other side of town, Duggie was making his first serious tour of inspection of Toplingham Manor. The initial impression was very imposing. Granite gate posts, with gryphons on the tops, gave way to a wide gravelled drive. This led up the slope from the main road, several hundred yards long, to the house. It snaked through the overgrown deer park, dotted with specimen trees ranging from massive oaks to giant cedars. To his estate agent’s eye, it was pretty clear that the house itself was Georgian and equally clear that it could do with a lot of TLC. The slate roof looked solid, but tired. A few patches of plaster on the walls had blown and peeled. Nothing too serious, he thought to himself as he pulled up in the car park opposite the front door.

A porch, comfortably wide enough to keep the rain off the heads of any visiting nobility alighting from their carriages, was supported by four imposing columns. A white marble stairway led up to the doors. As instructed by Roger, he ignored them and made his way round to the back of the house.

Without too much difficulty, he located the key. It was knotted onto a length of string, dangling inside the letterbox of the door to the servants’ quarters. So it was that he came into the building through the kitchens. A few empty cardboard boxes and a row of black rubbish sacks were lined up, ready to be thrown out. Alongside them were half a dozen empty champagne bottles, presumably the remnants of Uncle Eustace’s cellar.

Now that’s not a bad idea, he thought to himself. He tugged open one of the fridges. He was rewarded by the sight of a number of full bottles, and one half-empty. As he pulled it out, he was unsurprised to see the label bearing the crest of McKinnon Marine. The cork came out with a reassuring pop. Unable to see a glass, he picked up a mug sporting the same crest, and filled it to the top.

‘This is the life,’ he murmured to himself as he raised it to his lips. A split second later, he felt a stab in the back from a blunt, but nonetheless painful, implement. He spilt half his champagne onto his shoe. He was on the point of spinning round, when a menacing voice rooted him to the spot.

‘Now where the bejesus would you be thinking of going, you thieving scoundrel? I’ve got a good mind to blow your kidneys straight into your pancreas and out through your duodenum. I’ll take my chances with the police, by the holy virgin of Lourdes if I won’t.’

Duggie knew a thing or two about firearms, so he stayed dead still. The barrel of the gun pushed ever more insistently into him. Single barrel, wide enough to be a shotgun, twelve-bore, maybe bigger. He found himself analysing the sensation quite dispassionately. Old habits die hard. Hopefully he was dealing with one of the staff his friend had inherited. He cleared his throat and spoke in mild tones.

‘No need for the threats. I am on your side, honest.’ He sensed a slight faltering in the resolve of his assailant. ‘My name is Douglas Scott, a good friend of Professor Dalby and, so long as you don’t carry out your threat, the future manager of this place.’ This time the pressure in the small of his back reduced to just the slightest hint, so he decided to risk turning round. ‘Professor Dalby told me he had called, to let you know I was coming.’

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.’

‘When you say, “already taken”?’ Duggie was smiling. ‘How long will it be, do you think, before one of them manages to pop the question?’

‘Pop the question? They haven’t even laid a finger on each other yet, as far as I know. I can see this one going the distance.’

‘And Linda’s a lovely-looking girl. Just a bit shy, both of them. Maybe they need some oysters.’

‘How many oysters have you eaten?’ She was counting the empty shells on his plate.

‘Six. You know what they say about oysters. You could be in for a night to remember, if they all work.’

‘I know it’s going to be a night to remember, oysters or no oysters.’

He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Do you know, Tina? I really quite like you.’ He kissed the tips of her fingers. They tasted fishy.

‘And I really quite like you, too.’ She already knew what Duggie tasted like.

Chapter 7

Next morning, after a short visit to break the news to his employers, Duggie continued his inspection of the manor. It was a real voyage of discovery. His first discovery was Mrs Vinnicombe.

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.

Chapter 9

Two miles along the road, Duggie was also relieved. In his case it was because his search for the elusive butler had come to an end.

Henri was easy to spot in the public bar of the Prince William. Not because of a tricolour in his button hole, or an all-pervading reek of garlic, but simply by virtue of the fact that the place was quite empty, apart from this one man. He was sitting on one of the stools at the bar, nursing a glass of some colourless liquid. He was in his mid to late fifties, almost bald, but desperately trying to conceal the fact. His chosen method was to grow the hair at the sides of his head, and curl it onto the bald central part. There, it formed an intricate series of swirls and curls, held in place by a liberal coating of hair cream.

Duggie advanced down the bar towards him. He was almost upon him when the barman appeared from somewhere behind the bar and greeted him.

‘Good afternoon, sir. And what can I get you?’

Duggie had a moment of inspiration.

‘I’ll have what he’s drinking.’ He pointed at the Frenchman and the barman’s face dropped.

‘Very good, sir.’

He didn’t look too happy. Duggie realised why when the glass was placed in front of him. It was full to the brim and quite transparent. His suspicions were confirmed as he raised the glass to his lips. Well, at least he could cross out alcoholism as a reason for absence from work.

‘Henri?’ He slid onto a stool and opened the conversation. The other man raised his head from his water and nodded. Duggie introduced himself.

‘I am Douglas Scott and I’m the new manager… Chief Executive of Toplingham Country Club.’ The barman seemed far more interested than Henri, who only just glanced up briefly, before once more turning his eyes downwards. ‘This is my first day and I have been trying to meet all the staff.’

‘That little tittle-tattle, Patrick. He told you I was here?’ There was undisguised annoyance in his voice. The accent was part Inspector Clouseau, part Eastenders, but the pose was pure Bogart, albeit without the stubbly chin, straight out of The African Queen. How did he manage it on a glass of water?

‘Never mind how I found you. I am only pleased that I have.’ Duggie warmed to the task ahead of him. ‘I have heard that you are one of the best butlers in the country. And yet, I find you not on duty. Please can you explain this to me?’ In fact he had heard nothing about Henri at all, but in his experience, a bit of buttering up was always appreciated. This time he got more reaction and, for the first time, a direct look into his eyes.

‘What is there to be a butler for or to? My master popped his clogs two months ago. Since then, I have been fiddling my fingers and playing with myself.’ Duggie restrained himself and managed to keep a straight face, whilst admiring the Frenchman’s courageous attempts at mastering the vernacular.

‘But your contract of employment?’ He asked gently. The reaction was an emotional outburst.

‘I was employed fourteen years ago by Mr Eustace to be his personal butler. I performed my duties to the very best of my abilities, even when he lost his marbles and went gaga. And you are wrong in what you say. I was not one of the best butlers. I was without question the very, very best in all this country, maybe even in France too! The bee’s knees.’

Duggie noted the modest, self-effacing manner of the man, but did not hold that against him. He had always been a firm believer that if you had a trumpet, you should blow it. For a moment his mind flitted back to Tina Pound, but he pressed on with the matter in hand. He would be seeing her again later on.

‘Well, Henri,’ he clapped him round the shoulders, ‘I have good news for you. Your new master is now in residence. Professor Roger Dalby, much-loved nephew of Eustace McKinnon, is the new owner. He is at the manor now, awaiting your ministrations.’

The Frenchman’s back stiffened as if the ‘Marseillaise’ had suddenly struck up.

‘Ah bon, enfin. I shall resume my duties. I shall get my finger out and get it stuck in.’

Very close, thought Duggie with the slightest hint of a grin, but a brave try. Henri swigged the last of his water and leapt off the stool. ‘On y va?’

‘Oh yes, definitely.’ Duggie decided not to reply in French, principally because he could not speak a word of the language.

Chapter 10

Within a couple of months, Roger had settled into the manor most successfully. So much so, that he could barely remember life without a cup of tea and the Independent at eight o’clock, underpants ironed with a crease in them, or toilet paper without the first sheet neatly folded into an arrow shape. Even Jasper had mellowed with the passing weeks. He now managed to sleep all night without leaping onto Roger’s bed, or noisily slurping the water from the toilet bowl at three o’clock in the morning.

Outside, Stan the gardener and the three newly engaged groundsmen were making terrific inroads into the undergrowth. As they did so, they gradually unearthed the fine old golf course, designed by Harry Colt in 1923. They turned up stone benches, drinking fountains and statues, along with the unmistakable outlines of tees and greens. Truckloads of turf were arriving on a daily basis and the men were working flat out. Stan had assured Duggie that the course would be ready for its grand opening in January. Plans were already being made for a major event that month.

Duggie himself could not remember ever being happier. Every day was an adventure. There was the discovery of no fewer than three solid-fuel cookers. When sold to a specialist dealer, the proceeds had gone a long way towards funding the new range of stainless-steel food preparation and cooking equipment. This now took pride of place in the kitchens, which had themselves been totally gutted and refurbished.

The ground floor was swarming with workmen. The floors had been sanded and polished, the carpets replaced and new furniture ordered. Roger’s apartment on the first floor could wait. While a bit tired, it was still very comfortable. Particularly when compared to the spartan terraced house where he had lived up till then. The second floor of the manor was still to be restored. It really was a huge old place.

Mrs Vinnicombe clearly approved of the improvements, particularly with the arrival of the new industrial vacuum cleaners and floor polishers. So much so that Duggie had had to restrain her from over-polishing the already mirror-like floors. This was after both Henri and Linda had ended up on their backs, within hours of each other. For his part, Duggie had also ended up on his back, front and, on one memorable occasion, his head, while closely entwined with Tina. She now had a key to his flat and kept a toothbrush in his bathroom cabinet. All in all, life was going well.

Henri was enchanted. Things were back to normal. He was once more able to minister to the needs of a respected master. And he really did respect Roger, particularly once he discovered that the professor understood not only modern French, but medieval Old French as well. Anybody who had read the Chanson de Roland in its original manuscript form was worthy of deep respect in his eyes.

Linda, too, was a happy girl. With the generous pay rise awarded to her by her new employer, she had finally left her mother’s house. With Duggie’s aid, she had found a charming flat in the little town of Toplingham, a stone’s throw from the estuary, and only a short cycle ride from the manor. Roger told her to take whatever she needed from the manor. As a result, she was now the proud owner of, amongst other things, an absolutely enormous bed in the main bedroom. Her single duvet looked rather forlorn there, but then she was used to that sensation.

Her work was reassuringly similar to the previous years at the university, while the working environment was unparalleled. She had an office the size of the vice-chancellor’s, with a view out over spectacular gardens. And, of course, she had a boss to die for. And tonight she was entertaining him with supper.

Linda’s mum was not a great cook. For her family, food was necessary because, without enough of it, you died. Whether it was interesting, attractive or creatively prepared, was of less importance than the scrupulousness of the washing-up and cleaning afterwards. Linda had, therefore, invested in some cookery books. She asked Henri for his advice, without specifying for whom it was intended. The butler was, however, in no doubt as to who the lucky recipient of her hospitality was to be. In consequence, he advised her with all the experience of seduction a Frenchman could muster.

‘Ah, my dear, you are planning a feast. It has to be foie gras with lightly toasted, very thinly sliced bread. And, remember, it must be white bread. Maybe with a sauce of pears, caramelised of course. A glass of Sauternes to accompany it is always to be recommended. And then for the main course, I would always favour a lobster, but be sure to cool it well after the cuisson unless, of course, you favour thermidor…’

Linda had thanked him with a smile, and sought advice elsewhere. Mrs Vinnicombe had had little to offer, apart from ensuring that there be lots of it, whatever it was. Predictably, she also exhorted Linda to ensure everything was clean and spotless. Paddy, unexpectedly, was the one who gave her sensible advice, none of which involved Guinness, Dublin Coddle or Boiled Boxty.

‘As long as the ingredients are good, the food will be good. Don’t overcook it, and make sure you serve it hot. Something kind to the oesophagus and the stomach will also ensure a comfortable night’s sleep, while your gastric enzymes perform their necessary duty.’

He had then mercifully branched away from his normal fascination with the constituent parts of the human body. He had gone on to tell her about his years in the merchant navy, and the dishes he and his fellows had thrown together (and up) during their time at sea. These seemed to be principally composed of emergency rations, particularly powdered egg, cocoa powder and corned beef, sometimes all mixed together. Wisely, she decided not to emulate him. Nothing should be allowed to harm what she fervently hoped would turn out to be a night to remember.

She had had modest success in the past with her cottage pie and summer pudding, so she decided to stick with what she felt comfortable doing. She made sure she bought everything fresh that morning. Upon her return to the manor, she stuffed the supermarket bags into one of the huge fridges and rushed up to Roger’s office. Upon arrival, she was greeted effusively by Jasper. Roger was bent over an old book and barely looked up.

‘Sorry I am late, Roger. I had a few things to do.’ She did not want to tell him what she had bought for dinner. He waved dismissively and launched predictably into the Middle Ages.

‘Fontaine-lès-Dijon. I really must go there and see if there is anything left of Bernard’s home.’

For a moment, Linda wondered what it would be like if he were to invite her to accompany him. The idea of a few nights with him in a French hotel sent shivers up her spine. Her eyes became quite dreamy for a second or two until he turned the page and added, ‘You could hold the fort here for a few days, couldn’t you?’

Linda nodded, her expression giving nothing away. She had long ago come to terms with taking second place to a long-dead saint. Ruefully, she turned her attention to the post. She began slicing the envelopes open and passing them across to him. As he opened them and read the contents, she allowed herself a few seconds to study him, unobserved. He was looking very relaxed and fit. His early morning runs through the grounds with Jasper had brought a bit more colour to his cheeks and he looked all the better for it. His hair was getting long, and she knew he would soon get it cut. She always thought that it suited him longer though. It fell over his forehead and ears in an unruly brown mop, the sides just beginning to show a few grey flecks. She felt the urge to reach out and tidy it for him with her hand. As ever, she resisted the temptation.

There was a tap on the door. She looked up to see Duggie, a broad smile on his face. She reflected that he had been looking very happy for a good long while now. Tina and he made a good couple. A glance to her right reinforced her feeling that Roger and she would make an even better couple. Her thoughts sped on to the evening to come. The rigours of church twice every Sunday throughout her adolescence had suppressed any religious inclinations she might have developed. Nevertheless, she offered up a silent prayer for the success of her soirée.

Jasper, seeing his friend, sprang up and trotted over to him, tail wagging. Linda nodded approvingly. She reflected that only a couple of weeks previously, it would have been a full-blooded assault, albeit with the most amiable of intentions. Inevitably, dog and man would have ended up rolling on the floor. Now Jasper’s greetings were much more restrained. Progress indeed.

‘Roger, would you have a few moments for me to run through possible logos with you? I think that the image of the club is so important.’ Roger nodded and waved him to a seat.

Roger indicated to Linda to sit down with them. ‘I would be grateful for your advice, Linda. You are so much better at these things than I am.’ She happily agreed, pleased to be involved.

Duggie produced a number of pieces of artwork, some variations on the acronym formed by the initial letters of Toplingham Country Club, and some more abstract. After seeing them all, they both readily decided in favour of Duggie’s stated preference. This consisted of a silhouette of the house, with the two huge cedars of Lebanon in front. Duggie was keen to add a strapline below. They agreed upon Leisure in Luxury. He was clearly delighted at their endorsement.

‘Anticipating your approval of my proposals, I took the liberty of asking the marketing consultants to put together a couple of specimen membership cards. What do you think?’ They leant forward to view the flashy gold and green cards, complete with hi-tech hologram and, surprisingly, the photo of Roger on one, and Linda on the other.

‘How splendid.’ Roger was impressed, as was Linda, right up to the moment when she saw that the card bearing her photograph was not in the name of Linda Reid, but Linda Dalby. With a masterly piece of iron self-control, she managed to avoid blushing bright red. This resolve lasted for all of a couple of seconds till Roger, too, noticed. He blushed like a traffic light. At that point she joined him in third-degree embarrassment.

Duggie suddenly realised he was late for an appointment. Sweeping the documents into his case, he mouthed an excuse, and disappeared out of the door. He left them, as he later reported to Tina, like a pair of prize lobsters on the slab.

After his departure, there was a long silence as they composed themselves.

‘How do you feel about lobster?’

Linda was the first to take a desperate stab at conversation. In an attempt to change the subject, she hit on her scheduled menu for that evening. She soon discovered that cottage pie was going to be the best option, without a shadow of a doubt.

‘Never been able to try the things. I suffer from an allergy to prawns. As the lobster looks like the biggest prawn of all, I have always given them a wide berth. Anyway, that business of chucking them into boiling water always did seem so cruel.’

Both of them were glad to get back to everyday matters. He managed to look up and meet her eye. ‘Why do you ask? Is that what you were thinking of giving me tonight?’

Linda smiled broadly and replied. ‘No, it was just a suggestion from a friend.’

She picked up the rest of that morning’s post. She leafed through the letters before handing him a formal-looking white envelope with the words Strictly Personal, Private and Confidential across the front. Roger opened the envelope to find it was from Mr Heslop, the solicitor.

His meeting with Heslop some weeks previously had afforded him a fascinating insight into the life of his uncle. Heslop, himself well into his sixties, had acted for McKinnon Marine for many years and had known his uncle well. Roger listened in fascination to the tale of this self-made millionaire. His rise from modest beginnings to vast riches had been the stuff of fiction.

Eustace had been obliged to leave university at the end of his first term after wounding a fellow student in a duel. Considering that this would have been well into the nineteen thirties, duelling demonstrated an appreciation of history to which Roger had immediately warmed. In the years leading up to the Second World War, he had travelled the world in the Merchant Navy. Gradually, he worked his way up the ladder. He borrowed heavily, bought a boat, and set up his own shipping line. He was joined by George Jennings some years later. The war made multi-millionaires of them both, and their shares had continued to grow and grow.

In the nineteen nineties, when both were already old men, a scandal had burst upon the company. It was discovered that old Jennings had been filtering money out of the company and into various private accounts. This had been going on unchecked for decades. Chased out of the company by the legal team, he was finally brought to trial for tax evasion. ‘Like Al Capone,’ as Heslop had put it. As a result, he spent a number of years in prison, in spite of his advanced age.

During his time in jail, he produced a steady stream of hate mail, all aimed at Eustace. He delivered enough threats to have himself thrown straight back into prison after release. However, Eustace chose not to press charges against him. Eustace himself, in his final years, was no longer in a fit state to read the letters, let alone respond to them. The death of Jennings not long before Eustace himself, hopefully, ended the affair. Roger had returned to Toplingham reassured, but this new letter indicated that, unfortunately, all was not well after all.

He glanced at the letter in his hands, expecting a bill for the London meeting. Instead, he was surprised to read the following:

I regret to have to inform you of an annoying development. I am in receipt of a letter indicating in no uncertain terms that the descendants of George Jennings intend to seek redress from the descendants of Eustace McKinnon for the suffering caused to George Jennings and the loss of his share in the company, which they feel is still rightfully his.

This is, of course, complete nonsense. I will be happy to reply, on your behalf, to this gentleman, Kevin Jennings, who claims to be the son and heir of Jennings Senior. I would advise you not to be concerned about this matter which can, I am sure, be nipped in the bud once and for all.

The rest of the letter outlined the legal points upon which Heslop intended to reply, if so instructed. Oh dear, Roger thought to himself glumly, there had to be some strings attached to such a wonderful legacy, but he found all these legal complications distasteful. The words of his very own St Bernard, in a letter from Italy to those left behind at his beloved Abbey of Clairvaux, came to mind. …I suffer also from being obliged to move in affairs that trouble the peace of my soul…

Roger definitely felt that Mr Kevin Jennings was troubling his own inner peace but still, Heslop seemed up to the task. Mercifully, the rents from the properties in London were generating far more money than he could possibly spend. Let battle commence, he would tell the solicitor. As long as it did not affect him, or the peace of his soul. The thought of soul mates prompted him to raise his eyes towards Linda, who was looking serene and happy. His own mood immediately improved.

‘So what are you offering me this evening?’

She wanted so badly to reply, ‘Anything you desire.’ But she settled for, ‘Something a bit more straightforward than lobster.’

Chapter 11

Duggie and Tina were also dining together that evening. Both were enjoying the occasion. In fact, to Duggie’s surprise, he and Tina seemed to enjoy most things together. Twice married and twice divorced, he had vowed several years earlier to avoid any further serious relationships. He could barely afford his first divorce, let alone the second. A third would spell total financial disaster. Of course, after Roger’s slice of good fortune, and his own subsequent rise in economic status, things on the financial front were now greatly improved. He leaned across the remains of the Gambas au Cognac and addressed her face, rather than her cleavage. This was a trick he was gradually mastering as the weeks went by.

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