The invitation stipulated smart casual dress, which I made into a problem since my wardrobe comprised three categories: smart, casual, or ancient relics. There was no overlap. In the end, tired of my dithering, Daphne told me to shut up and put on a suit, explaining that it was better to go a little over-dressed than to feel scruffy. And, if that did not feel sufficiently casual, I could always not wear a tie. I took her advice—I owned several good suits that rarely saw the light of day, though it still freaked me out that they’d once belonged to Mrs Goodfellow’s husband, Robin, who we’d last heard of working as a deckhand on a Mombasa ferry. All his cast-off clothes fitted me as if they’d been made-to-measure, and I suspected Milord Schmidt, Hobbes’s hard-pressed tailor, had been responsible, though he had never measured me—at least not to my knowledge.
Daphne never had a problem with dressing for the occasion and always looked fabulous whatever she wore, though I may have been biased. So, while I faffed about, taking forever to decide which socks went with my suit, she picked out a simple pale blue dress that complemented her soft-brown hair and was ready within ten minutes.
When I was finally satisfied with my appearance, it was time to go. I suggested a taxi but, since the evening was pleasantly warm for early April, Daphne suggested a walk. We set off for Sorenchester Manor.
A minute later, I ran home to pick up a notebook and pen.
‘Are you sure you’ve got everything now?’ she asked when I rejoined her.
I nodded.
‘What about your invitation? It said to bring it.’
‘Damn!’
A few minutes later than anticipated, we arrived at the tall, solid gates of Sorenchester Manor where a burly doorman, bursting out of a fashionable grey suit, checked our invitation and let us into the grounds. The evening sun was peeking over the garden hedge, bathing the smooth, Cotswold stone walls of the manor in a warm, pinkish glow.
‘It looks splendid,’ I said, impressed more than I’d wanted to be as we strolled along a gravelled path that bisected a broad, neat lawn.
Daphne shrugged. ‘It’s alright, I suppose, but there are many far better examples of Palladian architecture all over the Cotswolds—there’s even one or two in town. This looks neglected, and even from here I can see problems—there are loose slates on the roof, there’s a small tree growing from the gutter, and other than this lawn, the garden looks overgrown and tired.’
I could see what she meant. The place reminded me of our little house, which we’d bought after our flat exploded, and which was in need of repairs we couldn’t yet afford.
‘It might mean the Colonel’s short of cash,’ I suggested. ‘Perhaps that’s why he wants the development?’
She shrugged. ‘Maybe, but he can’t really be poor—he owns a good chunk of the town and has all the rents coming in, not to mention the income from his farms.’
‘Maybe he’s a spendthrift or a gambler,’ I said. ‘Or has an expensive drug habit?’
‘Who knows? But he owns a roomful of paintings by old masters—he could raise a fortune by selling just one of them.’
As we approached the manor, a young woman in a maid’s uniform opened the door. She curtsied before ushering us into a long hall with an ornate, painted ceiling and walls plastered with portraits. I guessed they were of long-dead members of the Squire family: knights in shining armour, cavaliers in flamboyant costumes, dark, buttoned-up Victorians, bewhiskered military men in scarlet tunics festooned with medals, and a handful that looked almost modern. I estimated that well over one hundred guests were already there—my invitation had hardly been exclusive. The hall felt warm and stuffy, but along the far wall was a long, white-clothed table where another pretty maid was serving drinks. Thinking a glass of something might help the evening along, I guided Daphne that way.
‘Red or white, sir?’ asked the maid as we approached.
‘Umm …’ I said, caught out by a choice I should have anticipated. ‘One moment … ’
‘May I have an orange juice, please?’ said Daphne when the maid turned to her.
‘Of course.’ The maid picked up a jug and smiled. ‘I would have offered, only I’d asked everyone else and you’re the first to want a soft drink.’ She poured out a glass, handed it to Daphne, and turned to me with a smile. ‘Have you come to a decision yet, sir?’
‘Yes … maybe … do you have a lager, by any chance?’
‘I’m afraid we only have red or white wine, orange juice or cola, sir. Or there is water if you’d prefer.’
‘No, no,’ I said, determined not to appear indecisive, ‘I’ll have a glass of white … no, make that a glass of red … no, I’ll have the white after all … please.’
She glanced at Daphne, who shrugged with a ‘seen it all before’ expression and poured me out a glass. I took it, sipped and grimaced, for although not a connoisseur, I could tell it was not great. It took me back to the stuff I’d buy before I’d met Hobbes—cheap and bad for the head. Still, it wasn’t nearly as nasty and vinegary as the stuff from Papa’s Piri-Piri Palace.
Armed with our drinks, we mingled with the horde, and although I recognised some, I was taken aback by how many knew Daphne—most of them through attending her lectures at the museum. I’d gone to a few myself, when I could take time out from my busy schedule, and was proud of the way she could engage her audience and make the past come alive. If I’d had a history teacher like her, I would probably not have failed my exams.
A bald, brawny man with a broken nose, a face criss-crossed with scars, and fewer than the standard complement of teeth introduced himself as Bruce Wainright. Despite his fearsome appearance, he had a soft voice and came across as an affable sort of chap.
‘What do you do?’ I asked after depleting my store of inane small talk about the unseasonal warm weather.
‘I’m in the ladies’ hairdressing game—I’ve recently opened a salon down Vermin Street.’ He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a business card, and offered it to Daphne. I was impressed by the size and solidity of his hand—not that it compared to Hobbes’s.
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the card, ‘but don’t I know you from somewhere?’
‘Perhaps you remember me from my previous life.’
She frowned and then broke into a smile. ‘Of course, you’re “Bruiser” Wainright—I used to enjoy watching the boxing. Weren’t you a contender?’
A tall, good-looking man, older in close-up, edged out Bruiser and me and introduced himself to Daphne.
It was Valentine Grubbe. ‘Good evening,’ he said, the epitome of social ease.
‘You’re the developer,’ I said, jockeying to maintain my position.
He nodded graciously. ‘Indeed. I hope the wine is to your taste?’
‘Delicious,’ I lied.
‘Good. I was afraid Toby’s choice might be a little rough for most people—it certainly is for me, which is why I’m sticking to orange juice.’ He glanced at Daphne’s glass and smiled. ‘I see you are a lady of taste.’
She smiled. ‘I’m Daphne Caplet and this is my husband, Andy.’
‘Of course, the lady from the museum. I was hoping to meet you—I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘Good things, I hope,’ said Daphne.
‘Indeed, yes. Your expertise is well regarded.’ He flashed a gold Rolex and looked down at me. ‘I wonder if you’d mind if I had a word with your wife … in private? It’s about business.’
‘Umm … no … not at all,’ I said, too startled to object.
‘Good man.’ He directed Daphne to an alcove away from the milling crowd, leaving me with Bruiser.
‘Is she really your wife?’ asked Bruiser.
‘She is.’
‘But she’s lovely.’
‘I know,’ I said, wondering if he was hinting that she was too good for me, which was astute of him.
‘Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t trust that guy,’ said Bruiser, shaking his battle-scarred head.
‘Why not?’
He shrugged. ‘I knew plenty like him in the old days—flashy, entitled types with too much money and too little conscience. They’d shag anything in a skirt.’
‘She’s wearing a dress,’ I pointed out.
‘Just take care,’ said Bruiser. He finished his drink and set off in search of a refill.
I turned to keep an eye on the alcove. Daphne was laughing—evidently, Valentine Grubbe was not only tall, good-looking and rich, but had a sense of humour too. I wondered if I should feel threatened and despite being sure that I shouldn’t, I was.
A sweet, earthy scent alerted me that someone was approaching.
‘Good evening,’ said a slightly breathless, tall, thin woman. Her hair was grey-blonde and in long dreadlocks, or braids, with little sparkly bits. I’d noticed her among the SODs at the council meeting—her long orange dress and knitted tank top had stood out. She’d apparently not bothered to change since then.
‘Evening,’ I responded.
‘I noticed you talking to Mr Grubbe,’ she said. ‘What do you think of his plans?’
‘Well …’ I said, ‘they are interesting. I … suppose they might benefit the town.’
She frowned. ‘So, you’re in favour?’
‘Not necessarily. There are … certain things I’m not sure about. What’s your opinion?’
She sipped from her glass of water. ‘I’m totally opposed. Nearly all the supposed benefits to the public are nebulous while the harm to the local environment and the town will be tremendous and irreversible. The only winners will be Squire and Grubbe.’
I nodded. ‘But there will be jobs though, so it’s good news for builders and … umm … quantity surveyors and the like.’
‘For a short while, but I ask you, at what cost? Read this.’ She thrust a flyer into my hand and merged into the crowd.
The flyer was from the SODs, but before I could read it, Colonel Squire sauntered over, beaming as if at an old friend.
‘Ah, Mr Caplet, Andrew, so glad you could make it. I always make a point of reading your marvellous reviews in the Bugle—they’re refreshingly honest and so witty.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, flattered.
‘I do hope that crazy woman wasn’t bothering you?’
‘No, not at all—she was just explaining her point of view. Who is she?’
‘You’ve just encountered Rosemary Crackers. She shouldn’t really be here. I didn’t invite her, but she came as Trevor Baker’s plus one. Do you know Trevor?’
‘I know of him—he’s head of Baker Engineering and leader of the SODs. I saw him at the meeting.’
‘On the ball, as always,’ said Colonel Squire. ‘I’ve spoken several times with him and discovered that he, at least, has an open mind and can be won over by well-reasoned arguments.’ Squire looked around as if to make sure we weren’t being overheard, and whispered, ‘Our development team is hoping to bring him on board in the near future, though he is undecided as yet. Seeing that woman with him is a bit of a blow, though.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because she’s an environmental extremist, and totally opposed to all forms of development. I doubt she’s ever seen Sorenchester Common, which is just useless, wasteland with little value to man or nature. People like her make a hobby of getting in the way of progress to pass the time—she claims to be an artist, but in reality, has independent means. She doesn’t know what it’s like having to strive for a living in a hard world, like you and I.’
I nodded sympathetically.
Colonel Squire shook my hand again. ‘Splendid to meet you, Andrew, and I’d love to stay and chat for longer, but I really must circulate—a host’s duty, you know?’ He smiled and joined a group of local shop owners.
I gulped down the remains of my wine and set off to find some more. This time, I opted for the red, though a sip confirmed my expectation that it was as bad as the white. I also picked up another orange juice for Daphne. But she was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Valentine Grubbe, for that matter. Had she already been seduced by his dastardly charm and money? Had I already lost her to the big bully?
In truth, I didn’t really believe this—it was just my insecurity speaking. I refused to listen anymore.
And I was right not to believe it—she was making her way toward me through the crowd, exchanging nods and smiles, and looking thoughtful.
A hearty slap on my back made me spill the orange juice down my shirt and the front of my trousers.
‘Careful!’ I said, and forced my angry scowl into a friendly grin when I turned and identified the culprit.
‘I see you’ve miraculously risen from your sickbed,’ said Ralph.
‘Oh, hi.’ I felt guilty, as if he’d caught me with my fingers in the petty cash. ‘Yes, I’m … umm … feeling so much better now. Thank you for asking.’
‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘Back at the Bugle tomorrow?’
It was more a command than a question.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, hoping to come across as keen and raring to go.
‘Excellent,’ said Ralph. ‘By the way, your piece on Papa’s Piri-Piri Palace was good.’
‘It was?’ I said, surprised.
‘Of course, to get the tone right, I had to edit it a little here and there, but a fine piece of writing. It made me wonder if your talents might have been underused and under-appreciated by my predecessor.’
‘Thanks,’ I mumbled. ‘Umm … are you enjoying the evening?’ I gestured at the room.
‘It’s delightful, like all of Valentine’s bashes.’ Ralph glanced at his glass and grimaced. ‘Apart from the wine though—Colonel Squire’s responsibility, I understand. It reminds me of paint stripper.’
Daphne joined us.
‘I got you another drink,’ I said, holding out the near-empty glass, ‘but I … umm … spilled most of it. By the way, this is Ralph. Ralph, this is my wife, Daphne.’
‘Delighted to meet you,’ said Ralph, lifting her right hand to his lips.
Daphne smiled. ‘You, too.’
Ralph continued. ‘I was just telling Andy that his reporting skills should be more widely appreciated.’
‘Good,’ she said while I cringed, expecting a punchline that never came.
‘So, I intend to give him more opportunities to shine.’
‘A promotion?’ she asked.
Ralph nodded. ‘In a way. Obviously, I can’t offer a salary increase—that’s the responsibility of the new owner, but I might be suggesting one next time I meet him.’
‘Thank you.’ I said, half flattered, half annoyed—hard money would have been better than a nugget of praise.
‘When might that be?’ asked Daphne.
‘Very soon, I’m sure,’ said Ralph with a vague shrug. ‘Oh well, must circulate. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow, Andy. Bright and early. A pleasure to meet you, Daphne.’
Ralph slipped into the throng and the evening dragged on until Grubbe’s presentation about the fabulous new development. After about half an hour of this, Daphne took me to one side and whispered that she was bored.
‘Let’s go home,’ I said.
I, too, was tired of the whole tedious affair. Perhaps, if the wine had been better …
On the walk back, I planned a short, balanced article about the development—after all, Basil had not been present. It was, I felt, the proper, proactive response from a reporter whose skills should be more widely appreciated.
4
The following morning, I went into the Bugle thirty minutes earlier than usual, and drafted a thought-provoking article about the proposed development. Impressed by my even-handed and insightful writing, I emailed it to Ralph.
He called me to his office five minutes later. ‘Thank you for your piece,’ he said.
I nodded and smiled—smugly confident that it was a good one.
He frowned. ‘However, it won’t do at all. I will not allow this newspaper to blatantly take sides on such an issue. Our adve
rtisers and customers must see us as fair and balanced in all things.’
‘I thought it was fair and balan … ’
Ralph held up his hand and halted my protestation. ‘It was not. Your bias against the development showed right through it.’
‘But … but I … ’
‘If you’d allow me to have my say, Mr Caplet! I was shocked by your stick-in-the-mud agenda—are you working for those cranky opponents of the scheme? It certainly looks like it—I noticed you waving a piece of their seditious propaganda at the party last night.’
‘I’d only just been given it!’
‘Be quiet, please. Your article is full of prejudice and invective against the development.’
‘I was trying to be fair—I haven’t even made up my own mind yet.’
‘Stop interrupting! I will not have such blatant insubordination and negativity at my paper. It seems the previous regime was lax in this regard, but I run a tight ship. Anyone who can’t take the discipline will be … ’
‘Keel-hauled?’ I muttered.
‘ … fired! Do you understand me?’
I nodded. ‘Umm … yes but … ’
‘But me no buts,’ said Ralph, looking severe.
Out of the blue, he smiled. ‘It wasn’t that the article was all bad. After I’d expunged the negative stuff and added a few observations of my own, it now strikes the right note. Honestly, Andy, you have potential and a promising future—just don’t allow your prejudices to show when you write for the Bugle. Always aim for truth and balance.’
‘Yes, but … ’
‘Enough. Let’s move on. This was just a friendly warning. Now, go into the world and report. Remember to be fair and positive.’ He dismissed me with a wave.
I was shaking with rage as I walked away. Or was it fear of losing my job?
Basil Dean, the Bugle’s senior reporter, gave me a sympathetic look. At least, I assumed the look was meant for me but, with his strange eye, it might have been intended for the pigeon on the window ledge. I sat down at my computer and looked at what Ralph had done to my article. Balanced? Like hell it was! He’d removed all mention of potential problems and downsides, every hint of nuance, and had turned it into a gushing adulation of the development and the developers. Even worse, he’d left my name on the by-line.
Inspector Hobbes and the Common People: Comedy Crime Fantasy (Unhuman Book 5) Page 3