The King's Park Irregulars

by David Wilson

  ‘Oh?’ He looked vaguely interested as Sophie explained about the Provost dropping out at the last minute due to family issues.

  ‘You see Mr, I mean Milton, the guest of honour is a crucial part of our event. Rather like Stirling’s position as a city in Scotland, the guest of honour will be the brooch that holds the entire thing together. So the reason we are here, as I’m sure an intelligent man like yourself must have guessed,’ she could just see Alasdair silently tutting and rolling his eyes in her peripheral vision, ‘is that we would be, well, honoured if you would accept the role as our guest of honour?’

  Milton sat pondering for a moment. Inside he was relishing this and he would love nothing more than to accept. Despite being the most successful businessman in the area he had never been given the respect and recognition which he felt he deserved. It was he after all who gave generously to many local clubs and charities and he ran a highly successful online company from within Stirling, helping to maintain the city’s acclaim as a centre for high-tech advances. His website www.itsworthwhat.com was a great success story, allowing people to upload pictures of their family heirlooms or collectibles and through his network of experts he could give them a value. There was no doubt that the biting recession had helped his business with ever increasing numbers of people searching their lofts for things to sell to bring them in some extra money which had meant a huge increase in business for Milton’s website and therefore in his fortunes. To act as the guest of honour at such a big local event would go a long way to the city paying him back for all his good deeds. But one did have to play hard to get in these matters and if he agreed too easily it would not be such a coup – after all, for him to re-arrange his hectic schedule to fit them in would make it look much better. Sophie looked at him expectantly while Alasdair tried to eat a generously filled chocolate éclair without falling into the double jeopardy of both cream and chocolate smearing on his nose. Milton sprang to his feet and began pacing around the room, almost rending his garments in a show of great distress.

  ‘Oh Mrs Mills, I would dearly love to help you out but my business and my commitments are great and I just can’t think of a way out of them.’

  Sophie looked disappointed. ‘But Milton, the city is counting on you. This would not only help out our event but the city would owe you a huge debt of gratitude, even more than they do already.’

  He paced around a little more for effect. ‘Let me just go and check my diary and see if there’s any way I can re-arrange my schedule.’ He left the room and Sophie sat back feeling drained.

  Alasdair leaned over. ‘I think he might just go for it you know. If we can just offer him one of our kidneys then that might be enough to persuade him.’

  She cast him a frosty glance. ‘Very funny. I think he might accept, no thanks to you. She stopped as Milton came back into the room with his hands held up looking like an evangelical preacher.

  ‘Good news! I can put back my conference call to New York and my meetings and I will be able to give you my time on Sunday.’ Before Sophie could respond he continued, ‘However, there is one thing I would ask in return. Just a small item.’

  Sophie was on her feet and grinning inanely. ‘Anything, what can we do?’

  ‘I’d like the main stage to be named the Milton Scott Stage in honour of my being the guest at the inaugural event.’

  Sophie glanced at Alasdair, who seemed disinterested. ‘Well, I would have to run it by the committee but considering our position and your generous agreement I’m sure it will be fine.’

  ‘Wonderful!’

  Alasdair sighed and rose from his chair. ‘Perhaps we should be going now and let Mr Scott get back to his computer games,’ said Alasdair.

  Sophie nodded and they were ushered towards the front door.

  ‘So,’ Milton said,’ I assume you’ll be in touch in the next couple of days to give me the details?’ Sophie nodded again, barely able to speak with the huge relief she was feeling. ‘I hope the police have some good news with your slippers too Alasdair. It’s a shame when you have such a small collection to lose such a vital part of it.’ Milton smiled at Alasdair, who for once decided to let it slide.

  ‘I’m sure they will. Can I ask you one thing though?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I was surprised when the slippers came up for auction that you weren’t there bidding for them. In all seriousness, the fact that these were owned and worn by your illustrious ancestor, I would have thought you would have been desperate to get your hands on them?’

  Milton paused a moment. ‘No, not really. The problem is I have so many good-quality items that belonged to Walter, such as his writing set, and some manuscripts, that his old slippers weren’t that much of a draw. Especially given the poor condition; I mean the hole in the sole of one of them is quite a disappointment. It really reduces their value, so much that I’m surprised they were sold at auction at all.’

  Alasdair stared intently at him. ‘The hole in the sole?’

  ‘Yes, you should know, I think it was the left one wasn’t it?’

  Alasdair again kept staring. ‘Yes, indeed it was,’ he replied as Sophie placed a hand on his arm and gestured him out of the now open front door.

  ‘Many thanks Mr Scott. Speak to you soon to go over timings.’ The door was closed behind them and they got back into the car. ‘What on earth was all that about?’ Alasdair turned the key in the ignition and started down the driveway.

  ‘It’s just very interesting that he was able to tell me about the hole in the sole of one of the slippers.’

  ‘Why? Everyone gets a chance to examine the lots before the auction don’t they? He would have seen it then.’ Alasdair pulled the car to a stop at the end of the driveway and glanced over at her.

  ‘That would be true. Except the hole wasn’t in them when they were auctioned; I did that when I tried them on at home to see if they would fit.’

  Sophie looked confused. ‘So how would Milton know about it then?’

  ‘Good question,’ he answered, as he steered the car onto the main road and headed for home.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Abigail left the library at two o’clock to walk the short distance home, unaware of the impending madness that would very shortly descend upon her in the form of one Alasdair Mills. The day was bright and sunny and, walking down the hill past the War Memorial, she could feel the heat on her face even through the trees. Since her fallout with Alasdair yesterday she had been feeling strangely subdued but also had a feeling of needing something to get her teeth into. The former was undoubtedly due to the disagreement with Alasdair, but the latter was a feeling of realising that something within her needed to be satisfied. Since Arthur had died she had been without any purpose or drive to move forward, but when she thought about it now she felt angry at wasting time when, as Emma had said, life is too short. Abigail could remember back to when her mother died and her father had gone for months without taking care in his appearance, even leaving the house without shaving, which was something he would never have done, or been allowed to do for that matter. Then one day he appeared dressed as he used to be, cleanly shaven and with his favourite tie carefully knotted under the collar of an immaculately ironed shirt.

  ‘It just occurred to me,’ he had told the younger Abigail, ‘what would your mother say about all this?’ That was it. He seemed to have come to the realisation that life did have to go on, even though it was sometimes the hardest thing to do, but the main part of his grieving had passed. Abigail felt that she would have come to that point, but to have someone make it clear just how she had changed had brought her to a sudden realisation. What would Arthur say about all this?

  As she approached her front path she could see on the doorstep a familiar ginger-coloured article. ‘Hello Waffles,’ she said cheerfully, ‘it’s nice to see you again. Are you coming in for some milk?’ As she opened the front door Waffles padded in and made his way through to the kitchen, having a sniff as he w
ent. Emma was already in the kitchen, various cookbooks and cooking utensils, bowls and ingredients spread over the worktop. Abigail surveyed the scene.

  ‘Goodness, you’re hard at work! This looks like it’s going to be a sumptuous meal tonight.’

  Emma handed her a saucer for Waffles’ milk. ‘Well, you can’t have a meal with the new assistant manager of The Pudding Furnace and it not be a treat!’

  ‘You got the job?’

  ‘I got the job!’ Emma was beaming. ‘I just need to confirm my start date as soon as possible. I spoke to the council and they say that since I was on work experience and I’ve got a job, I can leave as soon as I want but to clear it with the library manager. Do you think there’ll be any problem leaving straightaway?’

  Abigail looked doubtful. ‘Oh, I can’t see that being allowed Emma. You would normally need to give a month’s notice at least.’

  Emma’s face fell. ‘Really?’

  ‘No!’ Abigail laughed, ‘I shouldn’t think it’ll be a problem at all – we’re not short-staffed really. I’ll put in a word for you and we’ll sort it out. That’s great news though, a new beginning for you. What was the place like?’ Emma gave Abigail the story of the interview and the plans for the restaurant, only being interrupted by an incessant miaowing coming through from the front door as Waffles demanded to be let back outside. Abigail wandered through and opened the door as the cat took a curious look around before walking out and over the gardens to start miaowing at a house a few doors up. Abigail watched him go. ‘Cats!’ she thought, ‘they’ll never be stuck.’ She was about to close the door when she caught sight of a familiar figure lurking on the pavement just outside her garden.

  Alasdair showed himself at the garden gate. ‘Hello Abigail, how’s things?’

  Abigail was glad to see him but her stubborn streak wouldn’t let her admit it. ‘Fine, and you?’

  Alasdair winced. ‘Well, bit of a development really about my burglary. I’ve spoken to Sophie about it but I wanted to speak to you too if possible?’ Abigail couldn’t help wondering what it was that would make Alasdair, whose stubborn streak was also rather well developed, come around and break the albeit brief silence between them.

  Abigail gestured to him. ‘I think you had better come in, or else someone will call the police with the way you’re loitering about there.’

  Emma was in the middle of stirring a sauce on the cooker when Abigail came in with Alasdair, ‘Emma, this is Alasdair Mills. Alasdair this is Emma Harris, my house guest.’ Alasdair held out his hand and Emma shook it.

  ‘So, you work at the library with Abby don’t you?’

  Emma shook her head. ‘Not any more, I just got a new job today. I’m making a meal for Abigail and I to celebrate. I take it you two have made up now then?’ There was an awkward silence as neither Abigail nor Alasdair were prepared to admit that they had made up since each of them was expecting the other to apologise first. Emma threw up her hands, sighing loudly, ‘For goodness sake, you’re like two bairns. Alasdair, Abigail is sorry she yelled at you and lost her temper.’ Abigail was about to protest but Emma kept talking to cut her off. ‘She knows you had her best interests at heart and what’s more she thinks you were right.’ Alasdair’s expression grew smug at being vindicated but Emma wasn’t going to let him get away with it either. ‘Alasdair, since I’ve just met you I can’t apologise to Abigail for you, but I can only hope that it will be the next thing you say. From what I understand you were condescending and pompous towards Abigail and, yes, she may need to get her mojo back but she needs the support of her friends rather than them trying to manoeuvre her around.’ She stood with her arms folded, looking at Alasdair, then at Abigail, then back at Alasdair again. ‘Well?’

  They both glanced at each other and, as expected, it was Abigail who took the higher ground. ‘I’m sorry I was angry with you Alasdair, I do appreciate that you were only trying, in your usual incomprehensible way, to look after my best interests. I shouldn’t have said what I did about you and Arthur either, that was unforgivable.’

  Alasdair smiled. ‘I can’t deny I was a bit hurt by that Abby, but in the spirit of harmony, I apologise for handling things the wrong way. I just wanted to see the old Abigail back again. Probably best next time that I get Sophie to have a word with you if there’s anything we’re worried about. I’ll never profess to understand the female mind.’ He looked at Emma, ‘It looks as if you’ll be quite the guardian angel for Abby?’

  Emma smiled towards Abigail. ‘I will, so you’ll need to be on your best behaviour. It’s the least I can do for her after what she’s done for me. Now, I have too much to do in here for you two to be in here as well. Sorry Abigail, I know it’s your kitchen but if you wouldn’t mind going into the lounge to chat then I’ll bring in the tea?’

  Abigail chuckled again. ‘You’re the boss it would seem at the moment. Come on then Alasdair let’s hear the latest with your burglary.’ She walked out of the kitchen and Alasdair followed, although a moment later he popped his head back around the door.

  ‘By the way Emma, no milk or sugar for me – I like my tea the way God intended.’ He turned to leave and then paused, looking back at her, ‘And what the blazes is a mojo?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Abigail took her usual armchair next to the fire and facing the bay window, while Alasdair sat down on the sofa facing the fireplace. He looked around the room as he was vaguely aware something was different but couldn’t quite put his finger on it rightaway, then it struck him, ‘You’ve put away all the old photograph albums from the sideboard Abby. I thought it looked tidier than usual, have you done with looking through them?’

  Abigail looked out of the window. ‘Sort of, although it’s more a case of being done with wallowing in the past. I know where they are if I want them. I think it’s maybe time to look forward and see what’s still to come down the road.’

  ‘Quite right Abby,’ he said, ‘and speaking of that, I think I may have stumbled onto something quite interesting.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, suddenly intrigued. ‘Do tell?’

  Emma came through the door with the tea tray and Alasdair waited rather impatiently while she poured both he and Abigail a cup, passing out the chocolate biscuits as well to which he helped himself to three. Once she was back in the kitchen he seemed lost for a moment enjoying his biscuits, given that Sophie had tried to limit the biscuits kept at his house to trim his waist. ‘Well? Are you going to spill the beans or not?’ Abigail asked.

  ‘It’s one of life’s simple pleasures Abigail, to savour a nice chocolate biscuit with your tea.’ She raised her eyebrows expectantly. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I think I may have a good idea who was behind the theft of my slippers.’

  He relayed to Abigail the story of his visit to Milton Scott with Sophie earlier that day and, in no uncertain terms, how the man had tried to lord it over him as if he were royalty. Abigail listened carefully, taking in the details. ‘But what exactly makes you think he stole them? Maybe he found out about the hole in them some other way, maybe by something in the papers?’

  Alasdair shook his head. ‘Impossible. I didn’t tell anyone about it as I was more than a little embarrassed to have damaged them. I mean after paying that amount of money for them and then putting a hole in them.’ He looked a tiny bit sheepish as Abigail just laughed.

  ‘I knew fine well you wouldn’t be able to resist trying them on. Did they fit?’

  ‘No, too small, hence the hole. But the point is that how did he know about the hole if he hasn’t seen them since they were stolen?’

  Abigail laid her head back on the chair. ‘It’s a strange one, but I find it hard to believe he would go to the trouble of stealing them. I mean he’s got such a collection of stuff already that he wouldn’t miss those tatty old things.’

  ‘Abby, Abby, Abby,’ Alasdair took up his position in front of the fire, which was where he usually felt he could lecture from most effectively, ‘you’re not thinki
ng like a collector, let alone one where there’s a long family connection like Milton Scott has. He does have a good collection of pieces but his collection isn’t complete, and if I was to hold onto the slippers then it never would be. A collector’s driving ambition is to complete their collection. To have a collection which can’t be completed is bad enough for any of us but when money isn’t the problem it must grate on his nerves something terrible knowing that I hold that power over him and his ambition.’ He raised himself up on his toes and loomed towards her for emphasis. ‘That kind of feeling can make a man do anything.’ Having finished his point he strolled over and looked out of the bay window, as was also customary, while he allowed some time for the recipient of his lecture to take in his words of wisdom. He knew that in due course there would be a further questioning of his logic and from his position at the window he felt most at ease, being able to spin Columbo-like around and knock it for six. Abigail was well accustomed to this pattern but was prepared to indulge him yet again.

  ‘Maybe he was offered them from a, what are they called? A fence? He might not have stolen them at all.’

  Alasdair spun around, raising a hand in the air. ‘Yes, but if that was the case why didn’t he go to the police and tell them about it. Even if that was the case, Abby, it still shows he has something to be held accountable for – handling stolen goods if nothing else!’

  ‘So I assume you’ve gone to the police and told them what you know?’

  He sat down again on the couch. ‘I phoned them this afternoon and spoke to the sergeant who’s looking after my case. They said it wasn’t enough to go on to get a search warrant and they certainly weren’t going to start accusing a high-profile local figure on the basis of my suspicions. He didn’t say as much but I get the feeling the police know that Milton Scott and I don’t get along.’