Prior Engagement, or Plagued to Death!

by Allan Frost

  ‘And you, Tim. I’ve been thinking about you and your lovely wife quite a lot recently. I know I’m a bit past it and hardly the one to give such advice, but I think you should give serious consideration to starting a family. You need an heir. An heiress would do at a pinch but the Law still prefers a male. Priorton Hall could easily have been demolished by now, so think on!’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought, Sir Cedric.’ Tim turned pink with embarrassment.

  ‘And another thing,’ continued Cedric. ‘I made some enquiries with the College of Arms people in London. Seems you have a strong case for being granted an hereditary peerage. Sir Augustus Wilton was a baronet and you’re a direct descendant. Hope you don’t mind me poking my nose in where it’s not wanted but heritage preservation is vital, especially these days.’

  ‘Who’s Sir Augustus Wilton,’ asked Hilda. ‘Is he local?’

  George was quick to reply.

  ‘He owned Priorton Hall. Died in 1605 without leaving an heir. I helped Tim and Sarah prove their entitlement to the estate.’

  What! And didn’t get a penny by way of a thank you! thought Hilda indignantly. How ungrateful! I’m sure George could find a way to accept a small token of thanks without having to record it in the police gratuities file.

  ‘I’m not sure I want to be called Sir Tim.’

  ‘Speak for yourself! I quite like the idea of ‘Lady Sarah of Priorton’.’

  ‘I’d have to get involved in all sorts of things, like politics. It’d interfere with my research.’

  ‘There’s more to life than research,’ observed Cynthia. ‘Like enjoying life while you can still draw breath. Research won’t help when you’re dead and buried.’

  ‘No, but the dead can teach us so much,’ replied Tim.

  Hilda felt queasy. Must be the sherry, probably a cheap brand.

  Not again! thought George. ‘I have to agree, to a point,’ he said. ‘Where would we be without forensics?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Tim. ‘I’ve discovered a lot from Augustus and Elizabeth.’

  ‘Elizabeth? Who’s Elizabeth?’ asked Hilda.

  ‘Elizabeth was Augustus’s wife. Are you feeling all right, dear?’

  ‘Just a little light headed. I’ll sit down for a few moments.’

  Hives gently took her arm and led her to a seat near the sherry table.

  ‘Look,’ whispered George to the others, who formed a scrum to listen. ‘Hilda’s terrified of ghosts, even the thought of them! For God’s sake, don’t mention what happened in the courtroom or that the Wiltons now haunt Priorton Hall!’

  ‘They don’t exactly haunt,’ reasoned Sarah. ‘They just sort of hang around.’

  ‘Watching Tom and Jerry,’ said Tim.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Cynthia.

  ‘Hush, she’ll hear you!’ Sarah shouted quietly. ‘Elizabeth and Augustus spend hours watching television. Augustus is going through the cartoon phase.’

  ‘I thought he’d have preferred period drama,’ said Cynthia.

  Tim shook his head. ‘No, he’s disgusted with them. Says the real Queen Elizabeth I was nothing like the Judy Dench, Helen Mirren or Glenda Jackson portrayals. So he prefers cartoons at the moment.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Cedric, Cynthia and George in unison.

  ‘OK. No more mention of ghosts, spirits or anything like that,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Why are you all in a huddle?’ came Hilda’s distant voice.

  ‘We were just admiring Sarah’s ring,’ George said as the scrum parted. He noticed her glass had been refilled and was now half empty again.

  ‘And what about you, Chief Inspector?’ asked Cynthia. ‘Are you enjoying your new position?’

  ‘Not quite what I expected, Lady Cynthia. Rather too much paperwork and socialising. I’m more of a hands-on copper but, I have to admit, it beats leaving a warm bed in the middle of the night to go out on a case. I’m very grateful though, Sir Cedric. Really appreciate it. Hilda and I see much more of each other now.’

  Must be a very large bed, thought Cynthia. Bet she’d faint if a marital aid found its way under the sheets! ‘Do you have any children?’ she enquired.

  ‘Two,’ replied George. ‘Boy and girl. We don’t, er, talk about them very often. Bit of a disappointment to Hilda.’

  ‘Left home, then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘See them much?’

  ‘No. It’s better that way.’

  ‘You can only do your best when bringing them up,’ said Cynthia. ‘What they do afterwards is up to them and no reflection on their parents. I hear all sorts of things in the shop. Some of them would make your hair curl!’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a shop,’ said Sarah. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Wellingley. It’s called SAFE. Doing very well since I became involved, even if I do say so myself.’

  SAFE. The name rang a bell. Probably seen adverts in the evening paper.

  ‘What do you sell?’

  ‘Oh, all sorts of things. Sex toys, specialist underwear, that sort of thing.’

  Good job Hilda was out of earshot. In fact, the last sherry bottle was now empty and Hilda was well and truly out of it.

  ‘It’s the talk of the cop shop,’ George said, more relaxed now his wife was snoring gently. ‘Haven’t had any reports of shoplifting for months. Although there has been an unusually high number of heart attacks at retirement homes in the area.’

  Tim was puzzled.

  ‘How are the two connected?’

  ‘You’d better ask Lady Cynthia.’

  ‘Yes, Cynthia,’ said Cedric. He was intrigued. ‘Tell us.’

  Sarah and Tim were also intrigued. Neither were prudes but there did seem something surreal about old Lady Cynthia being intimately involved with a sex, sorry, adult entertainment store.

  Cynthia, with considerable pride, briefly explained the variety of services provided by the shop. She was careful not to mention how she got involved in the first place.

  The Easons were surprised. George was impressed. Cedric was astonished and viewed his wife with mounting admiration.

  ‘You’ll all have to come to the launch of the latest additions to the Lady Cynthia Collection.’

  ‘We’d love to,’ said Sarah, enthusiastically. Tim seemed a tad taken aback. George had his doubts that Hilda would approve. Although their king size bed, taking into account his wife’s generous proportions, meant they slept very close together, they hadn’t exactly pounded the springs much. That was another downside to being Chief Inspector; he no longer had an excuse for sleeping in a separate room in case he was called out in the wee small hours.

  When they first met, he’d been attracted by Hilda’s good looks and hour-glass figure. Sadly, that figure now had more in common with a pepper grinder. Or overweight chicken with bandy legs. He knew she knew she had a problem; he didn’t buy dieting books or magazines yet their home was littered with them.

  ‘I strongly believe sex is a wonderful thing,’ Cynthia continued. Cedric’s eyes lit up with excited anticipation; he couldn’t agree more and the guests wouldn’t be here forever. ‘And not to be taken for granted. It’s too easy to let things slip, so to speak, in a marriage and it’s important for couples to maintain enthusiasm. The articles sold in the shop are designed to keep the home fires burning!’

  ‘Lunch is about to be served in the dining room,’ Hives announced in his customary graveyard voice. ‘Would someone be kind enough to help me lift Mrs Young?’

  VII

  Euphemia Crimp was having the worst day of her life. Hives had gently tapped on her door at some ungodly hour to make sure she prepared lunch in plenty of time.

  She knew, just knew, today would be a bad one. The first sign of misfortune came when she picked up the Crème de Menthe bottle by mistake instead of the Plax mouthwash. Such a terrible waste of alcohol!

  But she wasn’t an alcoholic, definitely not! She knew when to stop. She must do because she could never, ever, reme
mber being drunk. Admittedly, she suffered from the occasional headache first thing in the morning but it soon went after a sip or two of whatever was available.

  It couldn’t have been the Crème de Menthe that turned her hair from orange to luminescent green overnight either. One of these days she’d make an effort to sort out all the glass and plastic bottles whose contents were so cunningly disguised to hide the odd drop of booze misappropriated (she preferred ‘released’) from the cellar. Not that it mattered; her employers were usually too engrossed in their morning newspapers to notice her appearance.

  Fortunately, duties at Blister Grange were comparatively light. Breakfast for Lady Cynthia and Sir Cedric usually meant slices of toast and marmalade after fried eggs, bacon and tomatoes, all quite easy to prepare. Her beloved Julio always seemed to know when to lend a hand to prevent everything catching fire, although charcoal was believed to be good for the digestion.

  It hadn’t been like that in the old days, oh no. She’d been a very good cook and housekeeper. Everyone used to commend her ingenuity in transforming the most mundane food into something memorable. In fact, Lady Cynthia often commented on it, even now.

  However, Euphemia seldom had a clue about how her meticulous attention to detail could yield such unexpected results. Those blue potatoes had gone down extremely well but, try as she might and in spite of judiciously emptying several bottles of Curacao in the process, had proved impossible to replicate.

  In her more lucid moments, she could remember those far-off days when, as a young(ish) girl, she won first prize in a church McDougall’s Home Made Fruit Cake competition (hers was the only entry); Lady Cynthia was one of the judges and offered her a job at the Grange. From then on it had been a steady rise from humble maid to cook and, after old Mrs Keyholder passed away while on holiday in Morocco, housekeeper. Food poisoning, apparently: she wouldn’t have had that at Blister Grange, where everything was overcooked almost to mushy tastelessness in the traditional English fashion; no bacteria or virus could ever hope to survive such treatment.

  In time, Euphemia found herself in charge of four servant girls. They worked their fingers to the bone looking after the Foot-Warts and their frequent guests, mostly children with greasy hands and filthy clothes from playtime adventures or ‘helping’ farm workers. It came as a major relief when the children grew up and found partners and lives for themselves elsewhere.

  It had its drawbacks, of course. With less to do and wages rising, made worse by the Labour Government’s introduction of Selective Employment Tax in the 1960s, Sir Cedric reluctantly had to let the staff go until only Hives and Euphemia remained.

  Casual help, for tending the gardens for instance, was arranged through the Gizajob Agency for Young Offenders at Shrewsbury (a short rope ladder’s descent from the gaol). Cedric even sold portions of land off to raise cash to pay crippling death duties after his father died. Having said that, Blister Grange still had over 500 acres, mostly let to neighbouring farmers for grazing sheep and cattle; they were just about recovering from the last outbreak of Foot and Mouth disease. Yuk! The smell of all those carcasses burning before the remains were buried was dreadful! Stomach churning. Like that Irish stew she made recently.

  There was still the chicken run; it didn’t take much to look after them. And, since Lady Cynthia and Sir Cedric didn’t have large appetites, Euphemia was able to make a tidy sum on the side by supplying Fred Nibbull with free range eggs and the occasional chicken on a regular basis. She couldn’t kill them, well, not now. Her hands seemed to tremble much of the time these days; good for sifting flour but not for wielding an axe or wringing a feathery neck.

  Euphemia had to admit that Hives had been her saviour. With so little to keep her occupied throughout the long hours when the Foot-Warts went about their business, she succumbed to an overwhelming lack of urgency in keeping the rambling old house clean and her employers happy. Julio had, at about the same time, introduced her to the finer points of wine appreciation although (and she would never tell him) they all tasted the same after the first bottle. Spirits and liqueurs were more of a challenge since they seemed to go to her head quite quickly. She couldn’t understand it. Why should she get tiddly on four or five small glasses of gin, doused with at least a thimbleful of Schweppes tonic (low calorie, it goes without saying), she simply couldn’t understand.

  Euphemia’s brow creased; it had been many years since Julio had put his foot down, devised a tick-off rota and insisted she follow it religiously every day. Every day, mind you! Said he was worried she might lose her position for not cleaning the rooms! It wasn’t as if they’d been over-used during the last half century! She tried hard to find a reason why he thought it necessary to do such a thing. It might have had something to do with loosening buttons on her cardigan and blouse one summer’s night in the cellar, but she couldn’t be certain.

  Ah! Julio was such a wonderful gentleman! So aloof, like a proper lord. Yet so kind and thoughtful. Someone she could look up to (Euphemia stood a fraction over five foot: he was well over six). Always making sure she arrived safely at her bedroom door on the third floor and never taking advantage of her good nature. A girl’s reputation is all that matters, isn’t it? Pity really. Doesn’t know what he’s missing. Nor, sadly, did she.

  He often featured in her dreams, it goes without saying. Always the hero, picking her off the floor and carrying her to safety. But were they dreams? They seemed so real! If only . . . if only he’d hold her in his arms and whisk her away to a foreign land. If only he’d ask her to marry him. If only . . .

  A loud crash jolted Euphemia out of her reverie. Oh, bugger! She was covered in flour again! How did that happen? Where’s the dustpan and brush?

  Hives came running into the kitchen.

  ‘Euphemia! Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, Julio. Had another little accident. Sorry.’

  He took the brush; as usual, her hands were trembling. He bent down to clear up the mess.

  ‘Not to worry. Go and sit down out of the way while I clear up.’

  ‘Oh, Julio, why have I started being so clumsy?’ she asked, surreptitiously taking a swig from bottle marked WHITE VINEGAR.

  Nothing clumsy about it, he thought. ‘It’s because we’re getting old,’ he answered. ‘It’s about time you thought of retirement, Euphemia. I hear the Methuselah Retirement Resort caters well for people like us.’

  ‘Us? Why’s it called Methuselah?’

  ‘Because there are empty champagne bottles everywhere.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t be doing with that. Don’t like champagne . . . do I?’ she asked, uncertain whether she did or not. ‘And why did you say ‘us’?’ she added hopefully.

  He emptied the dustpan into the swing bin.

  ‘I’ve been giving the matter some serious consideration,’ he replied in his customary gloomy voice. ‘We’re both well past retirement age and it’s about time we thought about our future.’

  ‘Our future, Julio? Do you mean . . .?’

  ‘Let me finish, my dear. We’ve spent the best part of our lives in selfless service to Sir Cedric and Lady Cynthia. They can’t go on forever, and neither can we.’

  ‘Oh, Julio!’ She exclaimed, standing on tiptoe and flinging her arms around his neck. He turned away discreetly. The stench of stale gin was nothing short of overpowering.

  ‘Calm down, Euphemia!’ he urged with gentle firmness. ‘I think we should make a few plans before rushing into anything. We’ll discuss it later. In the meantime, I suggest you only drink coffee this morning. No, I mean it! Lunch today is an important occasion. Nothing must go wrong! Do you understand? Absolutely nothing!’

  Hero Julio left the kitchen shortly afterwards, making sure the electric hostess trolley was plugged in and switched on. The number of times Euphemia forgot this simple but vital task didn’t bear thinking about. Hot food is supposed to be served hot, not made an hour before it was needed and put on a cold trolley.

  She needed looking after,
not having to serve others at her age. If he could wean her off the bottle, she’d make an excellent wife and companion in his twilight years. And the standard of her cooking might return to its former glory.

  He was right, of course. She needed to keep a clear head. Two Paracetamol tablets hadn’t taken effect yet to quell the drumming between her ears. And washing them down with vodka had, for once, been a genuine mistake.

  She frowned. Was it her imagination or was Julio implying that she drank too much? Surely not. Mind you, she didn’t seem to be as good a cook as she had been. Something went wrong every day, or so it seemed. Even little things, like not enough or too much salt, make all the difference. Must be the headaches. But that couldn’t be the cause of shaking hands. Can’t imagine what caused it, nor could the doctor, although he did mention something, she couldn’t recall exactly what, about tipple. How many times did she have to insist she wasn’t an alcoholic?

  She sat down to examine the list Julio had prepared after consulting Lady Cynthia. That was another thing! In the old days, menus were discussed directly with the cook herself. Not now, though. Was it a conspiracy? Or had her job description changed without her being told? She took another sip of coffee topped with the merest splash of rum.

  The list seemed simple enough. Nothing too fancy. Rabbit soup. Made that last week after Hives had skinned it. She took it out of the freezer and tipped the solid lump into a saucepan.

  Hives popped his head round the door.

  ‘Aren’t you going to light the gas?’ he asked.

  ‘Just about to! You checking up on me? I’ve told you before, I can manage!’

  ‘Don’t forget to put it on the trolley when it’s done,’ he smiled disarmingly. His gaunt face and long, yellowing teeth made him appear distinctly vampire-like. She adored Christopher Lee as Dracula but hated it when Julio smiled toothily; it made her go all weak at the knees.

  ‘Get on with you, you saucy devil!’

  Hives slid out of sight.

  That hostess trolley had been a godsend, a gift from Julio for her birthday. He’d thoughtfully provided a fifty foot extension cable to help when she walked it around the vast kitchen, placing prepared food on its upper hotplate or unheated lower shelf. She even remembered to switch it on every now and then.