Ancestral Vices

by Tom Sharpe

  ‘And you say all this took place between two o’clock yesterday afternoon and nine last night?’ he said, attempting to return to mundane facts.

  ‘Two o’clock?’ shouted the chef. ‘How long do you think it took me to cut that pig in three pieces and sew them together again?’

  The Sergeant preferred not to think. He went back down the corridor to question the doctor.

  8

  If the Sergeant’s quest for some sort of understanding as to what kind of crime he was supposed to be investigating led him deeper into a morass of confusion, Lord Petrefact had troubles of his own.

  Walden Yapp had emerged from the nursery with only one thought in mind. He was going to get out of this frightful building, and once out he had half a mind to sue Lord Bloody Petrefact for unlawful imprisonment, grievous bodily harm, assault and attempted murder. The other half of his mind was busily trying to discover a motive for the conspiracy and failing hopelessly. He was naturally reluctant to follow Croxley anywhere, and particularly disliked the notion of seeing Lord Petrefact again.

  ‘But he simply wants to apologize,’ said Croxley. ‘There’s nothing more to it than that.’

  ‘If his apologies are anything like his bathroom facilities I can do without them.’

  ‘I can assure you that was purely accidental.’

  ‘Well, locking me in that room wasn’t,’ said Yapp, ‘I heard you do it. I intend going to the police to lodge a complaint.’

  Croxley gave a wan smile. ‘In that case I should definitely stick around. The police are already downstairs questioning people and they’ll certainly want to grill you.’

  ‘Me?’ said Yapp now distinctly alarmed. ‘Why me?’

  ‘You’d better ask Lord Petrefact that. He’s in a better position to tell you than I am. All I know is that there’s obviously been an exceedingly serious crime.’

  He ushered the now subdued Yapp into the bedroom. Lord Petrefact raised a bandaged head and gave his awful smile. ‘Ah, Yapp my dear chap,’ he said, ‘do take a seat. I think we ought to have a little chat.’

  Yapp hesitantly took a seat by the door.

  ‘All right, Croxley, you can leave,’ said Lord Petrefact. ‘Just go downstairs and see that we’re not disturbed.’

  ‘That’s easier said than done,’ said Croxley. ‘The cops are crawling all over the place and . . .’

  There was no need for him to go on. Lord Petrefact was taking the news as badly as everyone else. ‘Get out,’ he yelled. ‘And if one copper puts his nose inside that door I’ll have your scalp.’

  Croxley went and Lord Petrefact turned his terrible charm on Yapp. ‘A most unfortunate occurrence, and I shall do everything I can to spare you from being involved,’ he murmured. Yapp looked at him doubtfully.

  ‘I must say I take exception . . .’ he began, but Lord Petrefact raised a withered hand.

  ‘Of course you do, of course you do. I’d feel exactly the same in your situation. The last thing you want is to have your name dragged through the mud by the media. Court actions, insurance company investigations and all that sort of thing . . . No, no, we can’t possibly allow that to happen.’

  Yapp said he was glad to hear it. He wasn’t too sure what it was he was hearing but at least Lord Petrefact seemed to bear him considerably less ill-will than he did Croxley. ‘On the other hand I was locked in a room,’ he began but the old man stopped him.

  ‘That idiot Croxley’s fault. I have reprimanded him very severely and you’ve only to say the word and I’ll have the fellow sacked.’

  He watched with amusement as Yapp rose to the bait.

  ‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘The last thing I’d want is for any man to lose his employment on my account.’

  ‘Dock his pay for a couple of months then?’

  Yapp looked appalled and was still searching for socially significant words to express his disgust at this act of capitalist exploitation when the old man went on.

  ‘Now then, about the family history. You’ve read the contract and I hope the terms are agreeable.’

  ‘Agreeable?’ said Yapp, who, in the extraordinary circumstances of the morning, had largely forgotten the purpose of his visit and had seen it more as a trap.

  ‘You don’t consider the fee too slight? Of course I’m prepared to shoulder all expenses into the bargain.’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ said Yapp. ‘You seriously want me to research the entire socio-economic background of your family?’ Lord Petrefact nodded. There was nothing he wanted more than to set this destructive maniac to work on his family. By the time the swine was through with them half the relatives would have died of shock.

  ‘With no preconditions?’

  ‘Absolutely none.’

  ‘And publication guaranteed?’

  ‘Without question.’

  ‘Well in that case . . .’

  ‘Done,’ said Lord Petrefact, ‘I’ll sign the contract here and now. There’s no point in letting the grass grow under one’s feet.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Yapp, who didn’t find the metaphor a particularly happy one.

  And presently, with Croxley to witness the signatures, the contracts were exchanged.

  ‘Well, you’ll be wanting to get on,’ said Lord Petrefact sinking back on the pillow, ‘but before you go . . . all right Croxley, there’s no need for you to hang around.’

  ‘There is,’ said Croxley. ‘The Regional Crime Squad have just arrived.’

  ‘Tell the swine to go away. There hasn’t been a crime and I’m not having policemen—’

  ‘That’s not what Mrs Billington-Wall told them. She’s told them you’ve been into pigs and the Sergeant’s got the notion from the chef that that turtle was a receptacle for more than Fortnum and Mason’s best . . .’

  ‘Dear God,’ shouted Lord Petrefact. ‘What do you mean I’m “into pigs”?’

  ‘That’s just the beginning,’ said Croxley, preferring to keep off the topic. ‘She’s also told them that Professor Yapp tried to murder you and the doctor’s evidence that there were several detonations hasn’t exactly helped.’

  Lord Petrefact nudged himself up the bed. ‘Croxley,’ he said in tones of such implicit menace that Yapp shuddered, ‘either you will go downstairs and explain to those interfering lunatics of the Crime Squad that this is my property and that as far as I am concerned there has been no crime committed on it and that Professor Yapp was merely taking a bath or . . .’ There was no need for him to continue. Croxley had already left.

  Lord Petrefact turned back to his guest. ‘You will start at Buscott. It’s the original family mill, you know, built in 1784 and still working to the best of my knowledge. Ghastly place. I did my apprenticeship there. Anyway it will give you a fairly good idea of the conditions under which the family made its early fortune. My youngest sister, Emmelia, runs the place now. Makes ethnic costumes, whatever they are, or something of the sort. You’ll find her at the New House, Buscott. Can’t miss it. And the earliest records are in the local museum. You shouldn’t have any trouble and if you do refer them to me.’

  ‘A letter of introduction might help,’ said Yapp.

  Lord Petrefact rather doubted it but he was prepared to compromise. ‘I’ll have Croxley make out a cheque for you just as soon as he’s got rid of these confounded policemen. And now if you don’t mind. The events of this morning have rather taken their toll of me.’ And with a last reminder that Yapp was to start his research at Buscott, Lord Petrefact dismissed him and lay back wearily in bed with the comforting thought that this foul man was going to make mincemeat of Emmelia and all the other Petrefacts who littered the landscape round Buscott.

  *

  But to Walden Yapp as he threaded his way down the corridor and onto the landing there was no hint of these hidden motives. He was still too dazed by the sudden switch from misfortune to the extraordinary good fortune of being offered the opportunity to expose the social evils which had led the Petrefacts to fortune an
d the building of this vile house to concentrate on remote problems. Or even immediate ones. His consistently theoretical mind was so preoccupied with the statistical evidence of working-class suffering he would be able to extract from the Petrefact archives that he had reached the bottom of the great staircase before he was fully conscious that there were an inordinate number of policemen milling about. He stopped and stared suspiciously. Yapp disliked policemen. It was one of the tenets of his social philosophy that they were the bodyguards of property owners and in his more high-flown lectures he had referred to them as the Praetorian Guard of Private Enterprise.

  In the present circumstances their role seemed quite the reverse. Croxley was arguing with an inspector whose attention was held by the bloodstain on the floor.

  ‘I keep telling you the whole thing was an accident,’ he said, ‘there is absolutely no purpose in your being here.’

  ‘That’s not what Mrs Billington-Wall says. She says—’

  ‘I know what she says, and if you want my opinion the woman is mad. Lord Petrefact has instructed me . . .’

  ‘I’d like to see this Lord Petrefact myself before I form any opinion,’ said the Inspector dourly.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Croxley. ‘On the other hand he doesn’t want to see you, and his medical advisers have given orders that he isn’t to be disturbed. He’s not in a fit condition.’

  ‘In that case he ought to be in hospital,’ said the Inspector. ‘You can’t have it both ways. If he’s too ill to see me he’s too sick to stay here. I’ll send for an ambulance and—’

  ‘You do that and you’ll live to regret it,’ shouted Croxley, now thoroughly alarmed. ‘You don’t think Lord Petrefact goes to ordinary hospitals. It’s the London Clinic or nothing.’

  ‘In that case I’m going up to have a word with him.’ The Inspector headed for the stairs and was just climbing them when Yapp decided this was a good opportunity to make himself scarce. He strode across the hall towards the doorway and might have made it if Mrs Billington-Wall hadn’t chosen that moment to reappear.

  ‘There he is,’ she screamed, ‘there’s the man you want.’ Yapp stopped in his tracks and glared at her but already several constables had converged on him and he was hustled into what had once been the main drawing-room, closely followed by the Inspector.

  ‘I protest against this outrage,’ he began, following the routine he had learnt from so many political demonstrations. But the Inspector wasn’t to be fobbed off by protests.

  ‘Name?’ he said taking a seat at a table.

  Yapp considered the question and decided not to answer it. ‘I demand to see my legal representative,’ he said.

  The Inspector made a note of this lack of cooperation. ‘Address?’

  Yapp remained silent.

  ‘I know my rights,’ he said presently when the Inspector had finished writing down that the suspect refused to state his name and address and had adopted an aggressive manner from the start.

  ‘I’m sure you do. Been through the drill before, eh? And got a record.’

  ‘A record?’

  ‘Done a stretch or two.’

  ‘If you’re suggesting I’ve been to prison . . .’

  ‘Listen,’ said the Inspector. ‘I’m not suggesting anything except that you won’t answer questions and have acted in a suspicious manner. Now then . . .’

  *

  While the interrogation began Croxley went upstairs with a new sense of satisfaction. Mrs Billington-Wall might be, and indeed was, a force for confusion, but the sight of Walden Yapp being dragged by three constables into the drawing-room had cheered him enormously. Croxley was still smarting under the affront to his confidentiality occasioned by not knowing what document he had seen signed. For all he knew it might be Lord Petrefact’s will, though a will would hardly require Yapp’s signature as well. No, it was some form of contract and as confidential private secretary he had a right to know. It was therefore with something like mild delight that he entered the bedroom.

  ‘The fat’s in the fire now,’ he announced, choosing his metaphor for maximum effect. Lord Petrefact’s diet made him averse to any mention of fat while he had an understandable phobia about fires.

  ‘Fire? Fat? Where?’ squawked the alarmed peer.

  ‘In the drawing-room,’ said Croxley. ‘The Billington woman has fingered Yapp.’

  ‘Fingered him?’ said Lord Petrefact, subsiding slightly.

  ‘Colloquially speaking. It’s police jargon for accusing someone. Anyway they’ve dragged him off and are presumably grilling the fellow.’

  ‘But I told you to get rid of the bastards,’ shouted Lord Petrefact, ‘I specifically ordered you to . . .’

  ‘It’s no use your carrying on like that. I told them to leave but they won’t listen to me. I got the impression from the Inspector that he doesn’t believe you exist. He insists on seeing you.’

  ‘Then, by God, he will,’ yelled the old man and hoisted himself onto the edge of the bed. ‘Get me the medical team and bring me that fucking wheelchair . . .’ He stopped and considered the fate of Great-Uncle Erskine on the staircase and the demonstrably lethal qualities of the wheelchair. ‘On second thoughts, don’t. There’s a sedan chair in the Visitors’ wing. I’ll use that.’

  ‘If you insist,’ said Croxley doubtfully, but it was clear that Lord Petrefact did. His imprecations followed Croxley down the corridor.

  Twenty minutes later the sedan chair, borne on the shoulders of Croxley, two waiters, the chef and the male members of the resuscitation team, lurched down the staircase while inside Lord Petrefact prayed and occasionally cursed.

  ‘If anyone drops this fucking thing they’ll never hear the end of it,’ he shouted rather illogically when they were halfway down. But they reached the bottom safely and lumbered into the drawing-room, to the astonishment of the Inspector who had finally got Yapp to admit that he was Professor of Demotic Historiography at the University of Kloone. That had been difficult enough to believe, but the apparition of the sedan chair and its contents unnerved the Inspector.

  ‘What in Heaven’s name is that?’ he demanded.

  Lord Petrefact ignored the question. When it came to dealing with public servants he had no scruples. ‘What do you think you are doing on private property? There is no need to answer that question. I intend to lodge a complaint with the Home Secretary and doubtless you will be required to answer then. In the meantime I give you five minutes to get out of here lock, stock and barrel. If you are still here you will be charged with illegal entry, trespass and damage to property. Croxley, put a telephone call through to the Solicitor General. I’ll take it in the study. Professor Yapp will accompany me.’

  And without further ado he ordered the sedan chair to be carried out and across the hall to the study. Yapp followed in a daze of speculation. He had heard of the Influence of The Establishment and had in fact lectured on it, but never before had he seen it so flagrantly in action.

  ‘Well, I’ll be fucked,’ said the Inspector as the procession departed. ‘Who the hell landed us in this bloody mess?’

  ‘Mrs Billington-Wall,’ said Croxley, who had stayed behind to avoid having to bear the weight of the sedan chair and to witness the dismay of the Crime Squad. ‘If you want to get yourself out of trouble I would advise you to take her in for questioning.’

  And having left this suggestion to cause that wretched woman the maximum inconvenience he followed Yapp to the study. Ten minutes later the police had driven off. Mrs Billington-Wall accompanied them, much against her will.

  ‘This is a cover-up,’ she shouted as she was bundled into a police car. ‘I tell you that creature with the Intourist bag is behind it.’

  The Inspector privately agreed. He hadn’t liked Yapp from the word go, but then again he hadn’t liked what the Solicitor General had said on the telephone and couldn’t imagine he’d enjoy the inevitable interview with the Chief Constable. Since the weight of authority had come down against Mrs Billin
gton-Wall he meant to concoct some form of excuse from her statement.

  Behind them Fawcett House resumed its evil tenor. The notice announcing that visitors would be welcome at two pounds a head was taken down. Yapp accepted a glass of brandy. Croxley accepted the immediate notice of the contract chef and dismissed the caterers. The medical team made up another bed in the private study on the ground floor and Lord Petrefact, having entered it, ordered the converted hearse to be ready to take him to London as soon as he had rested.

  Finally, Walden Yapp drove off down the long drive in his rented car with a cheque for twenty thousand pounds in his pocket and a new sense of social grievance to spur his research. He couldn’t wait to get back to his modem and tell Doris all about his recent experiences.

  9

  The little town of Buscott (population 7,048) nestles in the Vale of Bushampton in the heart of England. Or so the few guide books that bother to mention it would have the tourist believe. In fact it crouches beside the sluggish river from which it derives the first part of its name and the original Petrefacts had drawn much of their wealth. The old mill still stands beside the Bus and the remains of its wheel rust in a sump of plastic bottles and beer cans. It was here that they had for centuries past ground corn and, if Yapp’s assumptions were right, the faces of the poor. But it is further down the river that the New Mill, built, as Lord Petrefact said, in 1784, looms so monumentally and provides the little town with its sole industry and presumably underpaid employment. Inside its gaunt grey walls generations of Petrefacts had done a brief apprenticeship before moving on, suitably chastened by the experience, to greater and financially more rewarding occupations.

  They were about the only people who did move. For the rest Buscott, unaffectionately known to the locals as Bus Stop for the illogical reason that buses had long stopped even passing through, has changed little over the years. It remains what it was, a small mill town, isolated from the rest of Britain by its remoteness, the silting of the old canal and the axing of its railway line and, most strangely of all, by the very industriousness of its inhabitants. Whatever may be said about contemporary England, workers in Buscott work; the last strike occurred briefly in 1844 and is never mentioned. As if these oddities were not enough, climate and geography combine to cut Buscott off even more completely. TV reception is appalling and the weather so variable that in winter the roads are frequently blocked by snow and in summer are avoided by all but the hardiest hill-walkers.