Old Moorhen's Shredded Sporran: The Belchester Chronicles Book 4

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘That ought to ruffle his dignity,’ replied Hugo.

  ‘I say,’ piped up Lady A. ‘Do you think Beauchamp would wear gloves to put sun cream on Enid’s back?’ At this question, they both collapsed in schadenfreudlich laughter.

  In such innocent pastimes they sat for more than an hour and a half, imagining Beauchamp and Enid in different inappropriate activities, before consigning their brochures to the waste bin and sighing in defeat. The West Country it would be, and nothing they could do would change their minds. All they could do was dream.

  Although Lady Amanda had, reluctantly, agreed to be maid of honour – she could not be matron-of-honour, because she was an unmarried lady who was still ‘unspoilt’, and she was a bit old to be calling herself a bridesmaid – she was full of trepidation at the prospect. Good grief! What would she look like if Enid wanted her to wear one of those coloured meringue dresses?

  The talk at dinner that evening was not all about the wedding, though. After the soup, she produced the photo-copied mug shot that DS Glenister had given her and passed it across the table to Beauchamp and Enid. ‘That, apparently,’ she informed them, ‘is Jimmy “the Jemmy” Aldridge, who has been sighted several times in Belchester.’

  ‘Tomorrow, Hugo and I will be taking every meal, with the exception of breakfast, in one of the eating paces in Belchester, in the hope that we may spot him and put him under surveillance.’

  ‘You’d better ask him to walk extra slowly, then. The two of you aren’t up to much,’ commented Enid, then continued with, ‘I don’t half need a fag. I’m going outside; there’s no need to wait for me.’

  ‘Enid!’ Lady A exploded, ‘No matter how accurate your comment, I think that having nicotine in your system has played havoc with your manners.’

  ‘I suggest you give me a call on the mobile, should you actually encounter him, and I will get to your location as quickly as I can,’ offered Beauchamp, fortunately covering Enid’s disgraceful reply of, ‘Shove it, sister!’

  That Night

  Lady Amanda was so distracted by the thought of hunting for Jimmy the Jemmy that she found it difficult to sleep, and only managed to doze occasionally, spending most of her time under the covers tossing and turning with impatience for the morning to arrive.

  At two o’clock, she gave up and got out of bed, put on her dressing gown, went downstairs and made a cup of tea. This she took back upstairs, and plonked herself down in the armchair that sat by her window.

  Drawing back the curtains, she was surprised to see a dim light in the estate chapel. It had not been used in years and, as far as she knew, had been locked since before Papa died. Who on earth could be in there now? The light was not bright, and she made a guess that it was an oil lamp.

  She was suddenly overcome by the overwhelming desire to wake Hugo and make sure she was not imagining things. Anyway, why should he be sleeping like a baby when she was absolutely wired?

  Yes, she’d been right; Hugo proved to be out like a light, a small smile of contentment on his thoroughly relaxed features. ‘Wake up, sleepy head,’ she said in quite a loud voice, shaking him by the shoulder at the same time. At first, this produced only a couple of grunts and an enormous snore, but eventually, she managed to rouse him from what seemed to be near coma.

  ‘Come on, you lazy old bear. I think there’s something going on outside, and I need your opinion of it before I rouse Beauchamp, although it might be him, I suppose,’ she said.

  ‘What might be him?’ Hugo was easier than usual to confuse due to his dozy state.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I got a cup of tea and sat down to look out of the window. When I did, I noticed that there seemed to be a dim light on in the chapel and, to my knowledge, that place hasn’t been used in years. Take a look and see what you think.’

  Hugo dragged himself reluctantly from below the covers, pulled on his dressing gown sluggishly and hunted around for his slippers.

  ‘Come on, you old tortoise, or it’ll be breakfast time before you get to the window.’

  ‘I’m going as fast as I can. Woman wakes up a man when he’s having a lovely sleep just because she can’t sleep, then expects him to be all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Just isn’t on.’

  ‘Stop whinging and get to that window, Hugo.’

  Hugo finally pulled on his footwear and shuffled over to the curtains, drawing them back reluctantly, then became galvanised by what he saw. ‘I say, old girl, you’re perfectly right. I can see a light, too, although it isn’t very bright.’

  ‘I wondered if maybe Beauchamp has had reason to go out there looking for something – it could be something quite odd, to do with the wedding, that we wouldn’t guess in a million years.’

  ‘I think,’ suggested Hugo, confidently, ‘that the best thing we could do would be to go to his room and see if he’s there. If he’s not, then everything’s all right, and we can ask him about it in the morning.’

  ‘Excellent idea, Hugo.’

  Beauchamp, however, was found to be fast asleep in his bed, lying as tidily as he conducted himself during daylight hours. There was not even a hint of a snore, and even his hair was perfectly in place. Had they not known him and been aware of the rise and fall of his chest, they might assume him to be dead.

  ‘Wake up, Beauchamp, please’ implored Hugo in a very polite voice. Beauchamp did not stir. ‘I say, old chap, would you mind waking up?’ he continued, while squeezing the manservant’s hand.

  ‘Stir your stumps, sleepy head,’ roared Lady Amanda, abandoning manners and agitating the man’s feet through the covers. ‘There’s mischief afoot.’

  ‘Wha … what’s going on?’ asked Beauchamp, suddenly upright, his eyes wide open, his coiffure still unruffled.

  ‘There’s a light in the old chapel. We thought at first it was you, but it obviously isn’t, so we need to investigate.’

  Beauchamp’s bedroom was on the same side of the house, but a floor higher, so they should get a decent view from his window and, when they looked, there was more to see. The main low light had been extinguished, but a brighter smaller light was mobile inside it. ‘There’s definitely someone in there,’ opined Lady A, and he’s changed to a torch now.’

  ‘Should we go down and challenge him?’ asked Hugo, with trepidation.

  ‘Not on your nelly,’ replied Beauchamp, making an uncharacteristic jaunt into the vernacular.

  ‘The torch has been switched off,’ Lady A announced, her nose firmly pressed against the window pane.

  ‘Look! There’s someone outside the chapel,’ hissed Hugo, excitedly. I can just see his shape.’

  ‘We mustn’t go down there until the morning. It’s too dangerous. One of us might get injured, or even killed. If it’s who we think it is, there’ve been three deaths already, and he might be armed.’ Beauchamp was saying no more than common sense dictated, as he reached into the top drawer of his tallboy and extracted a pair of binoculars.

  ‘You cunning old fox, Beauchamp,’ crowed Lady A with admiration. ‘Can you actually see who it is?’

  ‘Not from this distance with any accuracy but, in the main, it doesn’t look unlike that photograph you showed us at dinner,’ he replied. ‘Damn! He’s gone round the other side, but he’s at least had the decency to lock the door.’

  ‘Where on earth did he get the keys from?’ Lady Amanda was horrified.

  ‘If someone gained access to the house while we were all away, they could have got into my key cupboard by picking the lock, and had all the keys copied before we came back.’ Beauchamp was very glum.

  ‘We need to change all the locks,’ declared Lady A. ‘Get on to a locksmith first thing in the morning, and arrange for it to be done as soon as possible. In the meantime, you must ring the ironmonger’s and order bolts for all the exterior doors that don’t have them, until the locksmith has been.

  ‘He won’t dare come into the house when it’s occupied; the bolts are just in case.’ She blustered to a halt, afraid she migh
t have revealed her inner coward, not often acknowledged, but she didn’t fancy being attacked in her bed totally out of the blue.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday

  Lady Amanda shocked herself by sleeping like an old dog for the rest of the night, and Enid had to shake her awake for her early morning tea, which she didn’t bring up until nine o’clock, after Beauchamp told her what had happened during the night.

  She awoke with a shock, throwing her hands in the air and calling out, ‘I have learnt karate, you know. You won’t get away with this.’

  ‘It’s only me, Amanda, with your morning cuppa. Beauchamp’s been over to the chapel, and is waiting to go back over there when you and Mr Hugo are ready.’

  ‘Well, tell him not to do any breakfast for us. There’s a greasy spoon café to the east side of Belchester, and we’ll have a full English there, see if we can spot this Jemmy character. He’s got to eat somewhere and that seems like a likely place to start. I couldn’t stop thinking about it when I first went to bed.’

  ‘Very well, dear. As you like. I shall be outside having a gasper if you need me,’ she finished, turned on her heel, and exited like an addict facing imminent cold turkey.

  ‘I must get that woman some patches,’ thought the occupant of the bed, downing her tea in one and making a grab for her clothes, preparatory to yelling Hugo out from under his bed clothes and into his day clothes.

  A few minutes later, a stentorian voice could be heard coming from Mr Cholmondley-Crichton-Crump’s room. ‘COME ALONG NOW, HUGO. DOWN THE HATCH IN ONE WITH THAT TEA. GET ON WITH IT, MAN. WHAT? YOU’RE GOING INTO THE BATHROOM TO GET DRESSED? YOU OLD WOMAN. YOU HAVEN’T GOT ANYTHING I HAVEN’T SEEN BEFORE.’

  Lady Amanda stopped at that point, remembering his extreme modesty when he had been trying on new underwear, and realising that, as a maiden lady and only child who had led a very sheltered life, he did have quite a lot with which she was not acquainted, and she had no desire to be educated in that department at this time of the morning, or, in fact, at any time of any day.

  She showed her unspoken gratitude to his modesty by being extra nice to him when he emerged from the bathroom, somewhat sketchily dressed, but in quite good time. ‘Come along, old chap. We’re going out for breakfast. But we’ll take a look in that chapel before we go,’ she almost cooed at him.

  Startled at this change of plan, as well as mood, Hugo’s first question was a stark, ‘Where?’ They were supposed to be eating breakfast at home.

  ‘That greasy spoon cafe over on Station Road. If chummy was here last night – “the Jemmy”, not you, Hugo,’ – for Hugo used to be called Chummy on occasion in the past – ‘he might eat breakfast there to celebrate whatever he was up to. Or, he might just go there for breakfast anyway.’

  ‘What’s the place called?’ was his second question.

  ‘Um … The Greasy Spoon,’ replied Lady A, feeling rather foolish.

  ‘Fascinating. How quaint and original.’ Hugo had recovered sufficiently to add a tiny pinch of sarcasm to his voice.

  Beauchamp heard them arrive in the hall and immediately appeared through the green baize door, ready to accompany them to the chapel, a large key in his right hand. ‘Enid’s already outside,’ he informed them.

  ‘Having a fag. I know,’ Lady A interrupted him.

  ‘… so we can set straight off,’ he continued, without comment. ‘She delivered your message about breakfast.’

  ‘Let’s get sleuthing, then.’ Her ladyship was much braver in daylight and in company, when she knew the chapel had been deserted and locked up. ‘I’m really up for this.’

  The chapel had been ignored for many a year and had become rather like a horror-film set. Cobwebs were draped all over the place, a thick layer of dust covered everything, and the once bright stained-glass windows were filthy with dirt.

  The few hymn and service books that had long dwelt here had been badly chewed by rodents, and there was the scuffle of tiny clawed feet behind the wainscoting and even under the altar, the covers of which hung in discoloured tatters, their grandeur long gone in decay.

  Some of the kneelers also showed signs of having been light snacks for little creatures, and the scurry of myriad insects was almost audible, so many of them were there.

  The lady from the town who used to come in to clean the brasses – now long deceased – would have been scandalised to see the state of her previous living attention, and the silver had been put in the bank when her father died.

  There were commemorative plaques everywhere, some stone and some brass, memorials to long-dead members of the Golightly family. Lady A’s ancestor who had built the place originally had even been arrogantly vain enough to erect some to family members who had died long before the chapel was built, to give it a bit of ‘history and class’ in his opinion.

  Light filtered in fitfully through the filthy windows, making some random patches of colour on the stone floor, illuminating, here and there, little piles of rodent dropping, and other delicacies of neglect.

  The Sanctuary light no longer burnt.

  It was to this scene that, Beauchamp having turned the key in the lock, four figures now entered, their eyes straining through the gloom to discern anything out of place. Until recently, the place had been exactly as it had been left when it was locked up and forsaken, but now there was a surfeit of unsuitable ornamentation in its secret shelter.

  ‘OhmyGod!’ (An exclamation made one word with the sense of shock.)

  ‘Great heavens above!’

  ‘Crikey!’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  Thus, the four expressed their feelings on suddenly seeing what had been stashed under the sacred roof. There, on top of the altar, was the silver plate that had been filched from the butler’s pantry. There, on the front pews, were the collections of Meissen and Worcester. There, on the choir pews, were the trophies, cups and shields that had disappeared from the billiard room.

  There, in fact, somewhere in the body of the small chapel, was everything that had been stolen from Belchester Towers over the last week or two, including some items that had not even been missed.

  ‘Goodness gracious me!’ cried Lady Amanda, as she stared at what adorned the top of a small oak table at the rear of the building, originally there to hold leaflets about the history of the Golightly family, now sadly all consumed by the present occupants of the building, who had left not a paragraph or a sentence behind for posterity.

  ‘My silver bibelots!’ she cried. ‘I’d never even missed them. It shows you how often I go into my boudoir.’

  ‘My only Charles Horner hatpin is there, too,’ Enid croaked, her voice now hoarse with cigarette smoke. ‘I’ll deck the bastard if I ever find him.’ Lady Amanda was too shocked to chide her for her language.

  ‘And my silver cufflinks,’ added Beauchamp, astonished that he had not noticed the loss.

  ‘And my gold cufflinks and dress studs, plus my father’s pocket watch,’ concluded Hugo. ‘He has had a thorough rifle through our stuff, hasn’t he? And that’s since we’ve been back, because I had the cufflinks and studs with me in Scotland.’

  There was such a silence as to allow the scufflings of mice and other small mammals to reach their ears, and help raise goose-bumps and give them the chills, as they digested the fact that the thief had been in the house since they had returned to it and that here had, at times, maybe been only the thickness of a wall between them and the imminent danger he represented.

  ‘I’m going to lock all this lot away, your ladyship, and I suggest we go back to the house for a strong cup of sweet tea. Do you want me to inform Inspector Moody?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ exclaimed Lady A with fervour. ‘This is personal, and we’ll sort it out ourselves. We’ll be ready tonight for when I’m sure he’ll return.’

  ‘As your ladyship wishes.’

  ‘I’m going for another fag.’ Enid was getting totally predictable, as are of course, all addicts, thought Lady
Amanda with a total lack of understanding.

  The plan for the day’s nourishment was to take breakfast in the café, then lunch in The Cat and Footstool on Beggars Road, and dinner in The Clocky Hen, right down at the bottom of South Street, from where they would telephone Beauchamp to pick up them and their tricycles, and ferry them back home.

  He was able to drop them in Station Road, right outside The Greasy Spoon, which was nearly full at this time of day with men in donkey jackets, even on a Sunday. Employers no longer had any respect for the Sabbath. No doubt, in the summer, the uniform of choice was string vests, thought Lady A rather loftily, but came down to earth with a bump when she caught sight of the man behind the counter.

  He wore a filthy apron over a washed-out rugby shirt and ancient jeans. His hair was an indeterminate colour and hadn’t seen a barber’s scissors or shampoo for some time. The most striking thing about him, however, was his right eye. Where the black centre was normally located was a white blank; obviously he was blind in this eye.

  And to prove this beyond a doubt, he wore a pair of glasses which had a lens only in the space for the left eye. Where the lens for the right eye should have been located, was just an empty space, which he disconcertingly put his finger through to rub his itchy eyelid.

  ‘What can I get you an’ the wife, mate?’ the man enquired of Hugo, who was too nervous to put him right. He didn’t want to get into an argument in a place full of men in donkey jackets. ‘Do you do a full fry-up?’ he enquired timidly.

  ‘Course we do, squire. Why do you think this place is called The Greasy Spoon? That’s our speciality. In fact we do an all-day breakfast for people who keep irregular hours. Two? And do you want a mug o’ char with that?’

  Not really understanding what a mug o’ char was, Hugo thought it best to agree, and turned to find them a table, as Lady A asked him, ‘Have you ordered?’

  ‘I think so,’ he replied, hope in his voice.

  ‘I can’t see anyone in here that looks like chummy, can you?’ she asked, as they sat down at a recently vacated table.