Lady Emmeline and the Swansong Caper

by Anna Reader

  Purdie adored these stables; the Purdews had kept animals here as long as she could remember, and she’d spent many a happy afternoon cantering through the nearby fields on her pony, Virgil. It was glorious countryside – rolling green hills, lush paddocks and bird-filled hedgerows, and best of all hardly a soul to be seen. And Virgil was the gentlest horse one could wish for, a roly-poly little bay full of mischief.

  The racehorse was a rather different kettle of fish, of course. Her parents had decided to dabble in racing as a way of marking her father’s sixtieth birthday, and had found Silly-Mid-Off on an excursion to Ireland several years earlier. He was terribly sweet-natured, and a beauty to look at – all sleek, mahogany muscle and chocolate eyes. Purdie was wildly fond of him, and had even been permitted to warm him up once or twice. He hadn’t won a bean for two years, until suddenly, the previous autumn, he had found some kind of miraculous form and belted around Cheltenham like a thing possessed. This had greatly improved his merits in Algie’s eyes - the mercenary cove, Purdie thought to herself.

  “Hallo, boy,” Lord Alverstock said, in the low, soothing voice he used to great effect with all animals. “Look what I have for you.”

  The horse whinnied with pleasure and stuck his head over the stable door, eagerly slurping the sugar lump from Lord Alverstock’s hand.

  “That’s the ticket,” his Lordship continued, easing the stable door open and moving in next to the magnificent animal. Purdie and Algie followed him, patting the horse affectionately on the neck as they stepped forwards onto the straw-covered concrete. Purdie loved that smell; hay, and horse-feed, and animal, nearly-sweet and comforting.

  Lord Alverstock ran his hand along Silly-Mid-Off’s side and over the horse’s rump as he walked back to the tack-cabinet, letting the animal know exactly where he was: and there, perched atop the wooden cupboard, was a frame swathed in sack-cloth and tied with string. Lord Alverstock plucked it from its resting place and tucked it under his arm, giving his faithful steed one more lump of sugar before heading towards the door.

  “There we are, Sir Reggie,” he said, patting the frame, “what a splendid vacation for you. And now onwards to….” He stopped speaking as a shadow fell across the entrance to the stable.

  “No sudden movements if you please, sir.” A very young policemen moved into the doorway, truncheon in hand, and frowning at Lord Alverstock with what he hoped was an air of immense authority. Rather unnervingly his Lordship chuckled, and Silly-Mid-Off pawed irritably at the concrete floor: he wasn’t accustomed to hosting strangers in his digs, and was quite sure that he didn’t like it.

  “Ah, Peter,” he said after a moment, as Inspector Dashwood stepped across a prostrate shovel to join his young colleague. “I wondered whether you’d be here.”

  “Good afternoon, Lord Alverstock,” Peter replied. “If you’d be so good as to hand the painting over to Jennings here, we can all make our way to my car, and then back to London.”

  Peter was trying to maintain as impassive a demeanour as was humanly possible, but Algie couldn’t help but notice that Purdie’s beau was clenching and unclenching his fists as though he was experiencing real turmoil. And his eyes, which wouldn’t lie for him, were full of sadness. This wasn’t a proud moment for the young Inspector – he simply wanted to draw a line under the matter as swiftly, kindly, and painlessly as possible.

  “How could you?” Purdie demanded through gritted teeth, unable to see past Peter’s betrayal, or to recognise what an impossible position he was in.

  Peter’s jaw tightened, and he looked across at her in intense discomfort. It was abundantly clear to everyone but Purdie that the young man was finding this all extremely difficult, and wishing he was anywhere but Surrey.

  “It’s not Peter’s fault, darling,” Lord Alverstock said calmly, “he’s just doing his job. Now help me with this, will you?”

  He was, for some reason unbeknownst to the assembled company, attempting to strap the painting to his back with the parcel’s string. Purdie and Algie did their bit, despite their confusion, and it was swiftly lashed to his tweed jacket.

  “I must ask you to stop, sir!” the young policeman cried, his voice breaking slightly as nerves drove it dangerously near the limits of his upper register. “We’ll take care of that, if you don’t mind.”

  “It’s quite alright, dear boy,” Lord Alverstock replied, grinning at the callow youth. “I find it’s much easier to carry this way. And Sir Reginald would certainly understand. He was a mountaineer, you know.”

  “What the devil is he doing?” Algie whispered in his sister’s ear, as their father appeared to edge towards the family steed. “I don’t think the horse is going to be much help in a scuffle.”

  “When you’re quite ready, your Lordship,” Peter said, apparently unphased by this unusual display on the part of his quarry. “I’m sure we all want to get this over with as quickly as possible.”

  “Then don’t let me delay you, dear boy,” Lord Alverstock replied, the picture of sangfroid. “I’m afraid I shan’t be coming with you – prior engagements, and all that – but well done you for tracking us down.”

  The novice policeman looked anxiously up at Peter, wondering whether he was actually going to be called upon to use his truncheon. It was only his second week in the job, and he wasn’t sure he was quite ready to come to blows. Indeed, he’d accidentally hit a pheasant in the car on the way there, and even that had almost coaxed his breakfast into an encore. Peter shook his head, and the young man lowered his weapon in profound relief.

  “Purdie, Algie,” Lord Alverstock said, as he knotted his fingers in Silly-Mid-Off’s luxurious mane, “what a magnificent fortnight it’s been. I couldn’t have asked for anything more. I’m inordinately proud, and love you both so very much.” Without warning he suddenly leapt up onto the horse’s back with the agility of a man half his age. “Give my love to your mother.” And with that he dug his heels into Silly-Mid-Off’s flanks, sending Peter and the young officer flying as he burst out of the stable and made for open ground.

  “I say!” Algie cried, looking after his father in bright-eyed adoration. “How absolutely ripping of him!”

  Purdie’s eyes met Peter’s, both sets rather dazed, and no-one moved for a moment.

  “Jennings, you stay here and…search for evidence,” Peter said at last, trying to wrestle back control of the situation. “You two – come with me.”

  The trio tore out into the courtyard and leapt into the Blériot-Whippet. “I’ll drive,” Peter declared, not waiting for a response before firing up the engine.

  “Not sure how Pa would feel about that,” Algie observed, his handsome face still alight with delight at his unpredictable father’s antics. “This old girl’s his pride and joy.”

  “Get in the car, Algernon,” Peter commanded, not prepared to brook any more delay. Algie obeyed, and with a spin of the wheels and a storm of gravel, the vehicle was soon bombing down the lane and away from the stables.

  “What exactly are you going to do if you catch up with him?” Algie asked once they were underway. “I suppose you won’t go so far as to shoot him, or run him off the road...”

  “Don’t be so utterly absurd, Algie,” Purdie said, spinning around from the front seat to eye-ball her twin. “Peter wouldn’t hurt father. Would you, Peter.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Peter replied through gritted teeth, scanning the horizon for signs of a prize stallion in mid-gallop.

  “Peter,” Purdie gasped, outraged by this cavalier attitude to her father’s safety.

  “Of course I wouldn’t hurt him,” he replied briskly. “But that horse can’t keep running for ever, and we need to be there when it runs out of steam.”

  “Good luck, old boy,” Algie said, relaxing into the Blériot-Whippet’s upholstery. “That beast can run for days, and Pa is an exceedingly talented rider. He once hunted with the King, y’know.”

  “I’d quite forgotten that!” Purdie cried. She’d just cau
ght sight of Silly-Mid-Off and her father charging across the field to the left of the car, and was therefore determined to distract Peter – with hunting stories, or anything else at her disposal. “Didn’t one of the King’s chaps take a bad tumble into a hedge?”

  “That’s it,” Algie chuckled, having by now also spotted his father, and cottoning on to the timely benefits of embellishment. “I think it was the Master of the Rolls. The poor fellow was up to his eyeballs in bilberries, apparently - Pa had to drag him out of the bushes by his boots.”

  When Peter suddenly took a sharp turn left, it became obvious that the twin’s inane chatter had in no way diverted him from his task; Lord Alverstock had been spotted, and the Blériot-Whippet was gaining ground. Very soon horse and car were charging along parallel to one another, separated only by the occasional hedgerow.

  “Don’t startle Silly-Mid-Off,” Purdie warned Peter as they began to edge ever closer the galloping steed. “He doesn’t like cars. Or policemen,” she added for good measure.

  “What ho, Pa!” Algie cried across the bushes, sticking his head out of the Whippet and into the oncoming wind. “Illegitimum non carborundum, and all that!”

  Lord Alverstock grinned across at his son, pressed himself down into the horse’s neck and bucked him on with his heels. Sensing the importance of the occasion however, Silly-Mid-Off stopped running, reared up onto his hind-legs - holding Lord Alverstock aloft in a brief, chivalric tableau - before bolting off with renewed speed.

  “He’s magnificent,” Purdie breathed, as her father swung away towards a nearby wood, gripping onto the saddleless racehorse with his knees and galloping across the field at break-neck speed.

  “I agree,” Peter replied. “However, he’s also in a great deal of trouble, Purdie.”

  “He isn’t, you know,” Algie said, rather enigmatically. “I say, he’s headed straight for the river. You’ll never catch him now, Dashwood!”

  Purdie’s heart was firmly in her mouth. She was, of course, desperate to see her father escape now that he’d embarked on some kind of lunatic bid for freedom. However, she also couldn’t bear to lose sight of him, lest it be forever.

  Under Lord Alverstock’s command Silly-Mid-Off charged into the coppice and momentarily disappeared from view. The road looked to loop around the trees, so Peter put his foot down hard on the accelerator, determined to catch the fugitive once he emerged on the other side.

  “D’you know, that woodland pre-dates Elizabeth I,” Algie observed conversationally. “Quite remarkable. It must be one of the few truly untouched habitats in the country. Absolutely teeming with life - some particularly interesting beetles, as I recall…”

  “That’s jolly interesting, Algie,” Peter replied coolly, keeping his eyes locked on the road. “However, let’s please put your weevil-fancying to one side until your father is safely ensconced in this vehicle.”

  The car screeched around the bend in the road, and then slowed to a crawl. Now that they had moved beyond the wood, it was clear that the trees gave way to open, rolling fields once more: there was no place left for Lord Alverstock to hide. Yet he was nowhere to be seen.

  “He should be through by now,” Purdie said urgently, a strange heaviness gripping her heart as she stood up on her seat to get a better view.

  “Unless he’s done an about turn in the trees…” Peter mused aloud, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. “We’ll give it one more minute.”

  The trio held their breaths as the seconds ticked by, each focussed wholly on the tree-line. Peter killed the engine and listened out for the thump of hoofs or a tell-tale whinny, but everything was suddenly eerily silent. Not even the birds were singing.

  “Righto,” Peter said decisively, firing up the engine and putting the car into reverse. With a display of extremely impressive driving he guided the car back around the bend to the beginning of the wood – narrowly missing a panicked pheasant in the process – before dragging up the handbrake and leaping onto his seat, surveying the horizon with a small pair of binoculars plucked from his jacket pocket.

  Purdie, meanwhile, swung around to look her twin in the eye. “I…I think that may have been Pa’s goodbye to us, Algie,” she said slowly, her voice breaking as she reached for her brother’s arm.

  “What d’you mean?” Algie demanded, suddenly anxious, as Peter continued to scan the horizon with one foot on the steering wheel and the other on the smart leather seat. He’d been so caught up in the thrill of the escape that he hadn’t paused to think about his father’s last words to them. Could this really be his curtain call?

  “He’s not going to let us see him die, love,” she replied gently, dazed by the realization which only really crept up on her as she was speaking. “If he leaves now, we’re left with the glorious image of him riding into the sunset on Silly-Mid-Off. Not hospitals and hospices and funerals.” She choked on a sob, and stopped speaking to hold her tears in check.

  “Crikey, Em,” Algie replied, exhaling heavily and leaning forward to take her hand. “I think you may be on to something.” Tears stung the back of his eyes but he refused to let them fall. “I suppose this way he’ll almost…live forever.”

  “It’s no good,” Peter said at last, clambering down into his seat and slapping the dashboard. “He’s disappeared.”

  “Never mind, old boy,” Algie said kindly, patting Peter on the shoulder and offering him a cigarette. “You wouldn’t have been able to arrest him anyway, you know.”

  “I’m afraid that’s nonsense, Algie,” Peter replied, running an exhausted hand through his hair. “We’d caught him red-handed.”

  Peter accepted the cigarette and felt a semblance of calm for the first time in days. He’d been tying himself in gordian knots of late, wondering how best to handle the conclusion of this extraordinary case. It was so patently obvious to him that Lord Alverstock was the guilty party – yet he’d fallen head over heels in love with Emmeline, and really hadn’t relished the prospect of arresting her father. Eventually, after a considerable amount of soul-searching and sleeplessness, he’d come to the conclusion that it was at least better to arrest the man he’d become so fond of himself, rather than see a colleague do it. It was his responsibility, and his chance to do the thing as painlessly and respectfully as possible.

  “He hasn’t committed any crime, you see,” Algernon interjected, popping a cigarette between his sisters’ fingers as she stared blindly towards the woods.

  “Algie, we’ve found the painting,” Peter replied patiently, almost as though talking to a child. “With the best will in the world, that’s rather sealed your father’s fate.”

  “Oh, he had the painting alright,” Algie agreed. “But he didn’t steal it.”

  “You might not hold my intelligence in particularly high regard,” Peter observed, a small frown creasing his forehead, “but you can hardly expect me to believe that your father simply found a stolen painting in his horse’s stables. Really, Algernon.”

  “Oh, I don’t dispute that Pa took it,” Algernon replied brightly. “I’m simply saying he didn’t steal it. He already owned the painting, you see – and one cannot steal one’s own property.”

  Purdie suddenly sat bolt upright in her seat, her interest well and truly piqued. “What?”

  “Just what I say, Em. The taxman did claim it after Great-Aunt Augusta’s death, but Pa was able to repurchase it when Silly-Mid-Off had that cracking win last year. Pa decided to let it stay in the Gallery for a while so others could enjoy it, and then he was told he was ill, so….”

  “So he turned it into a game,” Peter said slowly, realisation crashing over him like a cresting wave. “If that’s true, why wasn’t it mentioned when we examined the crime scene?”

  “Only the Museum Trustee’s knew about the repurchase, and they were all in on the caper,” Algie replied, feeling a mite guilty now that he’d been confronted by the full weight of Peter’s dilemma. “All three are old chums of Pa’s from their Arm
y days, you see, and it seems that Pa bet them he could break into their Museum when they were all a bit squiffy at the Travellers Club a few months ago. They accepted the bet, curious to test the Museum’s security, but when he and Em actually managed the thing they realised that the truth would be rather embarrassing. It’s not terribly good form to invite someone to break into your establishment - doesn’t exactly inspire the confidence of one’s insurers. I expect they’re all still working out how to explain this to the men in suits.”

  Peter absorbed this explanation in silence, staring meditatively out of the car’s window as he puffed on his cigarette. Eventually he lowered his head, and his shoulders began to shudder in silent laughter. “What about the diamond bust of Shakespeare?”

  “Butterby lost the ghastly thing to Pater in a game of cards,” Algie said, warming to his pivotal role in their story’s denouement. “He was blotto at the time and may not remember – but he definitely signed title over to Pa on the back of a Queen of Hearts. Which I’ve got tucked in a book at home, as it happens. Father was nothing if not thorough. So really, all you’ve got to go on there, Dashwood, is breaking and entering a chum’s house. Hardly an offence worthy of Scotland Yard’s time.”

  “Which book, out of interest?” Peter asked, lifting his head out of his hands for a moment.

  “The Three Musketeers,” Algie replied, with a grin.

  “Naturally,” came the reply, as Peter cast his eyes up to the heavens and implored the gods to give him strength.

  Dashwood really is taking this like an absolute brick, Algie thought to himself. I do hope this doesn’t scupper his chances with Em.

  Purdie, meanwhile, was foraging around in the glove compartment for her father’s emergency hip-flask, and took a large swig of restorative brandy as soon as it had been located. “And the bail?” she asked, once the amber liquor had put her back on something resembling an even keel.