Their next pause to peruse was outside a couple of shops that had stood cheek by jowl for some years now, and still not come to terms with their diversity and the fact that they, in some categories, served the same market. One was a Cash Converters, the other a rather downmarket jeweller’s that also acted as a pawnbroker when hard times dictated; now was one of those times, as the three balls suspended from the metal rod above the door bore adequate testament
With their blankets over their knees, they looked as if they were about to enter the Derby and Joan Cup race, but younger people were heard to say, ‘Aah!’ as they passed by.
Lady A hissed furiously to her companion. ‘They must either think we’re in our dotage, or looking for some cheap baubles for Christmas presents, as we’re hard up. If only they knew.’
‘Knew what?’ hissed back Hugo.
‘That we’re private detectives currently engaged on a very mystifying case.’
‘Are we?’ As Hugo still didn’t have any idea what was going on, he was just going along with it as he usually did with his madcap friend’s schemes. He was suddenly galvanised by something that caught his eye, and nearly overturned his mobility scooter in his surprise and excitement, trying to stand up at the same time as he pointed with his stick. ‘There, there!’ he cried out, pointing with his cane.
Lady Amanda made a grab for him and managed to get him seated again, with a, ‘Yes, dear. Of course, darling,’ and a rather unconvincing smile to those who had been attracted by Hugo’s yell. ‘It’s alright,’ she assured those who were staring. ‘I think my husband has seen something he would like me to purchase for him, and he’s a bit gaga, you know. Nothing to make a fuss about. I know how to handle him.’
Determined that there should not be a public scene, while she had been speaking, Lady A had wrapped the end of her scarf around her stick handle, and was now thrusting its woollen contents over Hugo’s mouth. ‘Least said, soonest mended,’ she intoned, then growled, ‘If you don’t shut up this minute, I shall brain you, and, be warned, this is Great-Uncle Sylvester’s stick which has a lead-loaded handle.’
‘But I just caught sight of my gold lighter in that window,’ he struggled through his woollen gag.
She leaned over her scooter to get near his ear, and he winced and leaned away from her, convinced that she was going to bite him. ‘Hugo, just can it. I’ve seen my bridge pencils and Great-Aunt Jemima’s baton. Let’s make our way to the police station, which is, after all, only a stone’s throw from here, and see if DS Glenister is on duty.
They were lucky; the DS was in the CID room and, therefore, able to come to the front desk to speak to them. ‘The compliments of the season to you both,’ he carolled. ‘How are you both, and how can I be of assistance?’
‘Actually, it’s a bit delicate,’ explained Lady Amanda, in a stage whisper which could probably be heard in the street outside.
‘Shall we go into an interview room where it’s more private?’
‘Lead the way, young man.’
They had left their mobility scooters in the carpark, suitably padlocked, and trusted to luck that they would be safe, thus secured and so close to the forces of law and order that prevailed in the small city of Belchester.
When the social niceties had been observed, Lady Amanda made her dramatic accusation. ‘There is a group of people going round casing joints and returning later to rob the properties of small and easily fenced items of value. We have located some of these objects, and no doubt your excellent PC Baldwin will be able to trace and recover any others. Beauchamp is sure that he recognised the head of the gang, and I would suggest that you give this your immediate attention, as most of the items will have been repurchased from their illegal possessors before Christmas Day.’
Hugo nodded, there being nothing of value to add except to enumerate the items that they already knew about for the purposes of recovery.
‘That’s quite an accusation, Lady Amanda. Do you think you could start at the beginning, and go through events as you know them to have occurred, and I will then have a better idea of what you are talking about.’ Adrian Glenister knew that the elderly spinster was rarely wrong about her hunches, and had no reason to doubt her now: he just needed things to be explained with a little – actually, a lot – more detail.
‘Let me record this so that I have a concrete source of reference. We’ll treat this as a statement.’
‘Absolutely smashing!’ exclaimed Lady A.
‘Ooh-er!’ added Hugo.
DS Glenister pressed the requisite buttons to set the tape reels in motion and began to recite the time and place of the interview, and the names of those present. When he finally pressed the stop button, he let out a sigh of disbelief. ‘We’ll get that typed up and you can sign it. What a filthy little scam. I’ll get the necessary paperwork for the objects to be removed from the shop displays, and I’ll provide a list of the items that you have told me about, to be touted around by the uniforms that we send out on this mission. You were quite right to come straight here. At this mad consumer season of the year, we will have to remove them from open sale as quickly as possible. If you’d be kind enough to let me have the contact details of the friends that you know have “lost” small items of value, I shall have them contacted.’
‘I’ll go one better than that.’ Of course she would: she was Lady Amanda Golightly, the enemy of the crooked. ‘I have all my friends’ contact details on my computer and, if I may be allowed a couple of minutes, I shall phone Beauchamp Senior and get him to email them to you here at the station.’
Glenister never queried the reference to Beauchamp as a Senior, but he couldn’t resist asking, ‘You didn’t come into Belchester in the Rolls, then?’
‘No.’ Suddenly Hugo was quite animated. ‘Manda bought us both mobility scooters for Christmas, and we’ve used today to try them out. No more tricycle for me! Hurrah!’
‘And,’ his relentless friend continued, to regain the limelight, ‘you can check with the others who had not noticed anything missing when I last spoke to them.’
‘And Beauchamp would be happy to identify the person you specifically named?’
‘He would. Now, I’ve a little plan with which I hope you may be able to help out.’ As she explained, a smile broke out on the sergeant’s face, and he agreed at once. ‘I’ve always wanted to do something like that. I’d be delighted. And now I must get on with recovering the stolen items and taking our imaginative chummie into custody.’
Hugo lifted his eyebrows and exclaimed, ‘I say …’ as Lady Amanda interjected, ‘Not you, you silly old fool – the thief.’
CHRISTMAS EVE
Lady Amanda had arranged a little drinks party before she and all her cronies went for Midnight Mass, and a little light supper, of course, to sustain them through to the late hour: a little out-of-season asparagus and a few bite-sized caviar canapés – one knows the sort of thing. When the old-fashioned bell-pull started to be yanked, the library table was laden with plates of delicious bits and pieces, both sweet and savoury.
The party of local decrepits who arrived at the grand entrance to Belchester Towers were well wrapped up – furs for the ladies, cosy cashmere for the men – and hats, scarves and gloves abounded. But they were not in the least irked, for they knew that the Beauchamps pére et fils, would convey them from the reception to the cathedral, all crushed in and toasty in the Rolls and the Daimler and, as they were the cream of the county (or, at least, the scum that rose to the surface of it) no local member of the Constabulary would dare ticket them for overcrowding.
It was about eight thirty, when coats had been shed along with overshoes, and other outer garments had been put away, and the guests were just starting to descend on the delicate and delicious bites of food that there was an urgent peel on the front door bell, and Lady A winked at Beauchamp Senior and indicated that he should answer it while Beauchamp Junior called, very loudly over the buzz of excited chatter, ‘Pray silence for our special
seasonal visitor.’
‘Would you please fill your plates,’ requested his father, equally loudly, ‘charge your glasses, and pray be seated for tonight’s very special event.’
The ‘mature’ guests, having been brought up to obey an authoritarian voice which sounded as if it knew what it was talking about, immediately assembled on the chairs and sofas scattered round the book-lined room, leaving the library table looking as if it had played host to a swarm of locusts with particularly large appetites.
‘My Lords, Ladies, and gentlemen, may I introduce to you our special guest for this evening, Detective Sergeant Father Christmas.’ Beauchamp needed no megaphone to project his voice.
Standing before them was DS Glenister in a Santa suit he had bought fairly cheaply at the market – for he would need it when he had children of his own – doing his best to beam at all the old dinosaurs. So where were the presents, thought Lady Amanda, looking vainly for a little seasonal sack dangling from one shoulder?
‘If you would all like to raise a toast to the sentiments of the season’ – Beauchamp was at it again – ‘we shall adjourn now to the dining room, where I think you will find what our red-suited friend has brought for us, as well as a bowl of traditional eggnog for your immediate enjoyment.
‘What are you playing at?’ hissed Lady A as they headed out of the library.
‘I’ve already been here – came in through one of the servants’ entrances – as Beauchamp suggested that it would take for ever to hand every item out individually. I’ve got a couple of men in the drawing room waiting to take statements as to what belongs to whom, and they can have a great game of identifying what they have individually lost. We obviously can’t let them take them away with them, for they will be needed as evidence, but we can at least label each item as to its rightful owner, and they’ve already been checked for fingerprints.’
This was all mumbled through his thick cotton wool beard and was quite difficult to understand. What wasn’t so hard to comprehend was that the DS had a lively sense of humour and great goodwill.
‘And as this way won’t take so long, it won’t spoil your party,’ the sergeant concluded.
‘What a lovely man you are – for a policeman.’ Even Lady Amanda was mellow on this special evening of the year. ‘Are you sure you and Beauchamp aren’t in any way related?’
‘I hardly think so.’
‘Well, you should be. And this being Christmas Eve, which couldn’t be passed without a reference to Dickens’ old curmudgeon, what is Inspector Moody doing to pass the festivities?’
‘He’s gone, from long tradition, to his sister’s house in Norwich.’ Glenister’s grin suddenly got very wide. ‘They hate each other like poison, and she’s got five unruly children, all of whom wake up at about three thirty on Christmas Day to tear open their stocking presents, apparently taking them into their uncle’s room so that he can share in the excitement of what they received. His sister always makes sure there’s a plastic whistle in one of the parcels, and a tin drum in another; possibly even a kazoo.’
Lady Amanda grinned. Her cup of Schadenfreude was indeed running over. ‘How absolutely delightful. I shall be sure to avoid his company until well into the New Year so that he’s had adequate time to recover his usual charm and bonhomie.’
Glenister laughed and accepted a glass of the champagne cup with which the Beauchamps were circulating amid the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ of delight as people recognised their pilfered possessions. It was a very jolly party indeed that set off for Midnight Mass, and Lady Amanda had asked the sergeant if he would like to join them. ‘Would it be right, Father Christmas turning up at one of the holiest services of the year?’
‘The clergy would absolutely love it, and many parents take their children along to the service, knowing that the little ‘darlings’ will sleep until later in the morning if kept up so late. Trust me, you’ll go down a storm in your red suit. She extended an arm to him and he took it, the two of them marching down the steps from the front door and off towards the Rolls.
During the service, while her guests were singing the carols with unusual gusto, Lady Amanda quietly questioned Glenister. ‘And did you get the miscreant responsible for all these petty, mean thefts?’
‘Of course we did. Beauchamp was absolutely right. He worked in an insurance office for a few months before he was sacked, but he had gathered a large amount of information about particularly meaty policies and the addresses to which they applied.
‘It was then a piece of cake to gather together some of his children’s friends to make a carol party – some of them are particularly musical. When they’d enchanted the house owners, his son would ask to use the lavatory then pretend to get lost. Most houses, even the posh ones, usually have an engagements calendar either in the owner’s office or the kitchen. We’re talking older people here, not social media nuts who do everything on Facebook, Twitter, and electronic diaries.
‘There were also invitations displayed on mantelpieces. The boy would jot down the times the owners would be away from the property – such establishments aren’t over-run by servants these days. It was the work of a moment to effect an entrance through a window – probably single-glazed – and dart round collecting whatever loot could be found.
‘The other carol singers knew nothing about the real intention of their performances, but were allowed to share out the takings between them towards buying Christmas presents, and his son, who did most of the squirming through windows and lifting objets and appeared to be a nice quiet boy, got ten percent of what his father got from the hooky shops he sold on to, to keep schtum.’
‘And what will happen to them?’
‘The boy will get off with a stiff talking-to. He’s below the age of criminal responsibility, but we’ll have our day in court with his father. Isn’t it strange how two of Dickens’ books have collided this December?’
‘Eh?’ queried Lady Amanda, rather commonly.
‘Well, old Scrooge has had to go to seasonal hell in Norwich, as previously explained, and Fagin himself has been operating his gang of children in Belchester.’
‘Go to the top of the class, Glenister. I must say, it’s been a pleasure working with you.’
After such a prolonged conversation, several people in the pew in front of them turned round and, with their right forefinger over their lips, hissed, ‘Ssshhhh!’
‘Merry Christmas,’ whispered Lady Amanda towards the line of disapproving faces.
The disapproval immediately disappeared, and they wished the chatty old lady and Father Christmas the sincere compliments of the season before joining in the last verse of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’: the one that’s only supposed to be sung on Christmas Day and has the uplifting, soaring descant. ‘Yea, Lord we greet Thee, Born this happy morning’ soared above the midnight chimes that were ringing out from the cathedral to welcome in the joyous day.
Outside, the temperature had gone up slightly and the first flakes of snow of the winter began to fall, some landing artistically on a holly bush which boasted clusters of red berries. It would have made a beautiful Christmas card scene, had there been anyone there to observe.
COCKTAIL RECIPE
EGGNOG
(This is absolutely yummy – Hugo thinks so, too, as long as the stringy bits are strained out!)
1 measure of dark rum
1 measure of brandy
1 and a half measures of milk
1 measure of whipping cream
Half a measure of sugar syrup
1 small beaten egg
Shake well and strain, garnishing with grated nutmeg
NB I usually scale up the quantities considerably, whisking in a bowl instead of shaking, and serve in a punchbowl as the centrepiece of a buffet. If desired, do feel free to deck the bowl with plastic holly (fa la la la la…) – AG (Lady)
THE END
The Belchester Chronicles
by
Andrea Frazer
For m
ore information about Andrea Frazer
and other Accent Press titles
please visit
www.accentpress.co.uk
God Rob Ye Merry Gentlemen
ISBN: 9781786151155
Copyright © 2015 by Andrea Frazer
This edition published by Accent Press 2015
The right of Andrea Frazer to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
God Rob Ye Merry Gentleman Page 3