by T A Williams
‘Back into a brothel.’ He resolved to get an urgent legal opinion of the document. ‘All I’m suggesting is returning it to its original use. I’m sure the conservation officer in the Planning Department would be all in favour.’
‘Whatever. But, legal or not, Roger and Linda would never countenance it. You know that as well as I do.’
Duggie most certainly did. Roger was unworldly, intellectual, single-minded and hard-working. He could sometimes be distant, but he was always considerate and generous. He was, however, definitely not licentious. There was as much chance of Roger allowing a brothel to be run in his premises, as there was of Mrs Vinnicombe winning the Miss World contest.
‘And why, Duggie? You’ve got a great job now. You know you love it. And you’re getting well paid. Why go out on a limb and risk screwing things up between you and Roger?’
It was a very good question. Everything Tina said was right. Everything. And yet, there was this nagging thought in the back of his mind. ‘You’re right, Tina. Dead right. It’s just that this would be my own thing. This would be setting something up that I’ve dreamt up, not somebody else. All my life I’ve worked for other people; the Marines, accountancy, the estate agent. This may be my one chance to go it alone. All my own work.’
‘What, and pocket the profits?’ Tina looked alarmed.
‘No, of course not. The profits would all go into the country club pot. Roger will never know how much each is turning over. No, it’s not a money thing. It’s just me trying to prove something to myself.’
Tina didn’t like the sound of this at all. ‘Well, just you remember this. I really don’t think it’s a good idea. I won’t try and stop you. You’re a grown-up now. Well, some of the time. If that’s what you want to do, then so be it. But I don’t like it one bit.’ She caught his chin with her fingers and got him to look at her. ‘And Roger wouldn’t like it one bit either. You know that.’
Duggie nodded morosely. There was no doubt about it. Roger was far too close to his medieval saints to countenance such a thing. He took her hand absently and kissed each finger in turn, while muttering through his teeth.
‘Dead right. The man’s a saint.’
‘But you’re not darling, are you? And neither am I.’ In spite of her misgivings, she knew she wanted to cheer him up. Her free hand reached for him.
‘Most definitely not.’
There really was no doubt. They were made for each other.
Chapter 14
Back in Toplingham, little had changed. Roger was still draped over Linda. She still sat hopefully, waiting for whatever would develop. Unfortunately she had by now been waiting for a quarter of an hour. Pleasant as it was to feel his head against hers and his arm around her shoulders, she had rather hoped for a little more action, or at least conversation.
‘What are you thinking about?’ She murmured quietly, afraid of spoiling this long-awaited moment of intimacy. She received no answer. She waited a little longer, then asked in a slightly louder voice, ‘Roger, are you all right?’ Still nothing, so she slowly turned her face towards him.
She saw that his eyes were closed. She lifted her free arm and laid her hand gently against his cheek. He did not respond. Finally, worried that something terrible had happened to him, she sat upright and squinted at him from only a few inches away.
‘Are you all right, Roger?’
Still no response, so she started to pull away. As she did so, he gave a deep sigh and slowly toppled towards her. His face ended up resting on her breast which, while not an unpleasant sensation, was not quite as she had imagined the moment. Over his mop of hair, her eyes caught those of the big dog on the floor at their feet. For a moment she had the distinct impression that one big brown eye winked at her.
‘He’s gone and fallen asleep on me, Jasper.’ Her exasperation stirred the dog, who pulled himself into a sitting position and laid a huge paw on her knee. She caught it absently, while continuing to speak out loud.
‘Is it me, Jasper? Am I so boring that I make the man I love fall asleep when I’m with him?’ Her voice broke. She realised that all her hopes for that evening had gone out of the window. Nowhere in her possible scenarios had he fallen asleep. Well, there had been one, she admitted guiltily to herself, but that had not been here on the sofa. That would have been in the next room on her huge new bed. She slowly released him from her grip and watched his body slump back onto the settee, dead to the world. She pushed a cushion under his head and sat back again.
‘Is it me?’ Now her voice was definitely upset. The dog noticed.
At least she had the consolation of knowing that one of her male companions was concerned for her. Jasper reared up on his hind legs, both paws outstretched, and kissed her cheek, dislodging and possibly swallowing one of her earrings as he did so. She put her arms around the big beast’s shoulders, buried her face in the thick black fur and wept bitter, frustrated tears. All the while, the only other male in her life continued to sleep soundly beside her.
Several hours later, outside in the shrubbery, something stirred. Slowly and painfully, a shadowy figure swathed in a huge overcoat stood upright and stretched his legs. He had lost all feeling in his fingers and, as a consequence, had dropped the baseball bat. His teeth were now chattering, to the extent that he feared the very noise would give him away. He found himself with little alternative but to give up the mission for that night. Taking the utmost care, he extricated himself from the bushes. He scrabbled around on his hands and knees until he located the bat. Concealing it under his coat, he sneaked off towards the car park. All the way there, he silently vowed that he would get his man before too long.
The atmosphere in Linda’s office the next day was equally chilly. Although nobody, Duggie included, knew the full story of the dinner party debacle, nobody in the manor could be under any doubt that a considerable cloud had settled over love’s not quite so young dream.
Even Paddy was heard to remark, ‘Sure and it would appear that our much-respected master has besmirched, blotted and generally begrimed his reputation as far as the young lady is concerned. Whether as a result of some inopportune fiddling and fandango with herself’s private organs of a reproductive nature, or some major flatulent, incontinent or expectorational event whilst in her refined company, we can only surmise…’
Henri put it more delicately.
‘I fear the master either disappointed or frightened her with his performance. Too much of the rumpy-pumpy on a first date can be as bad as too little. Love is a fine balance.’
Stan was nursing a heavy cold. After a pause, during which he worked out what ‘roompy-poompy’ was, he came up with an observation that was, predictably, more down-to-earth and nearer the mark.
‘Bottled out, I reckon. Probably overcome by emotion – most likely the alcoholic variety. Shame though.’ He waited for a fit of coughing to pass. ‘They would make a good couple.’
Which was exactly what Linda had been thinking for many a long year. Now she found herself having to review her opinion of him and, indeed, of them as a couple. It was not as if he had done anything terrible. Nothing had happened. Nothing of a physical nature ? unless you counted the kiss on the ear. And when all was said and done, nothing much else had happened either. Leaving him in the lounge, she had gone to the kitchen and washed the dishes. When she had finished, she retired to her bed. He was still fast asleep on the sofa, with Jasper the giant hound for company. She spent a miserable night, her dreams in tatters.
There had been one startling moment when her bedroom door opened. But it was the cold, wet nose of Jasper that appeared from behind the door handle. He gave her an encouraging nuzzle, before returning to the lounge. When she awoke next morning, both of them had gone. Somewhat to her surprise, neither the sofa nor the rug were any the worse for wear.
When she came in to work the next day – and she had thought long and hard about breaking the habits of a lifetime and taking the day off – she found his door closed. So s
he did likewise. In the course of the day, she only had one brief glimpse of him in the distance. He said nothing, not an apology or an excuse. Nothing. As the day dragged on, she became more and more upset. In response to a cheery greeting from Duggie, she almost snarled at the poor man. She watched him scuttle off with his tail between his legs.
Even Jasper was conspicuous by his absence, no doubt his tail also firmly between his legs. Mind you, of the two of them, he had comported himself with far more decorum. Indeed, sight of the big dog would have been a considerable comfort that day. However, after her outburst at Duggie, nobody else dared put their head around her door, the dog included. It was a very long, miserable day. By half past four she couldn’t stand it any longer. She rallied enough to send Duggie a brief email. She asked him to excuse her for her rudeness, allowing herself to mention that she was a bit upset. She did not supply any details. Then she went home.
When she got back to her flat that evening, she found an enormous bouquet of flowers in the hallway outside her door. It was accompanied by a simple card with the word ‘Sorry’ written on it. She put them in water and waited for a telephone call, or a ring at the door. She waited in vain. Finally she went to bed in tears once more.
Next morning, there were a number of notes on her desk from him. They were all to do with the foundation of the Knights Templar. He mentioned his need to consult the original Latin text of the official Rule of the Order of warrior monks. This had, of course, been written by St Bernard himself. There was nothing of a personal nature. His door remained closed. Then, at eleven o’clock, she was startled to receive a text message from him.
Am on my way to Cambridge. Need to check the records of John of Salisbury. Will be back in a few days. Duggie has agreed to look after Jasper. Kind Regards,
Roger.
She snorted as she pressed the Delete button. Kind Regards indeed! It was the end of the week before an email announced the fact that the Cambridge to which he had travelled, was the one in Massachusetts, rather than the English one with the punts.
Chapter 15
‘Well, Mr Scott, I have to say that this is one of the most interesting cases ever put before me.’
Mr Cardew of Cardew, Mulholland and Waterman was positively animated. He leant back in his chair and clasped his hands together across his well-filled waistcoat.
‘As I am sure you can imagine, this is not so much a grey area, as an area of considerable chaos and no little confusion. To the best of my knowledge, it was Oliver Cromwell and his colleagues who were the first to attempt to close down the oldest trade in England. Before Cromwell came to power, I would think there was not a town in the country, and probably very few villages, without one of these, erm, houses.’ His expression showed no sign of disapproval. Duggie took that as a good sign.
‘I would imagine that there may have been a fair degree of recidivism after his departure.’ Spotting something on Duggie’s face, he explained. ‘Once Cromwell died, I daresay a few of these places sprang up again. But, be that as it may, a few centuries later, any remaining establishments were formally done away with by the Victorians. This was done by means of such expedients as the Contagious Diseases Acts or the Criminal Law Amendment of 1885.’
Duggie let the names of the acts wash over him. He didn’t bother to follow too closely. After all, the history of it did not interest him so much as the current legal situation.
‘What is fascinating, is that I have been unable to find any mention of Toplingham Manor anywhere. In view of the fact that your parchment is a royal decree, it would have needed to be formally rescinded. But there is no record of any such thing.’
Duggie caught his eye. ‘So…?’
‘So, I am saying that I cannot find any evidence of it being quashed.’
Duggie settled back in his chair, digesting the news. The solicitor carried on with enthusiasm.
‘As for the present-day.’ Duggie’s ears pricked up. ‘It may surprise you to know that prostitution is not illegal here in England.’
It most certainly did. Duggie leant forward as the solicitor explained in more detail.
‘There have been a number of attempts to clamp down, particularly with regard to under-age sex. The most recent was the 2003 Sexual Offences Act. But the profession itself is still legal.’
He clasped his fingers together, and leant forward over the desk.
‘And, apparently, it is still very much in demand. A survey in London a few years ago found that no fewer than 8.5% of men, aged 16 to 44, admitted to having paid for sex. The government have estimated that as many as 80,000 people are currently involved in the sex trade in the UK. That is an awful lot of people, you know.’
Both men sat in silence for a few moments and digested the statistics. Duggie noticed the framed photograph on the wall showing a considerably younger Mr Cardew sitting on an elegant settee. Alongside him were three little girls and a rather severe-looking lady. A quick calculation told him those girls would most probably be at university by now, unless of course they had joined the 80,000 in the sex trade. An unsettling, but unlikely, thought.
‘So, what about our royal decree?’
Duggie saw a sparkle in the other’s eye. He waited expectantly.
‘Yes, indeed, the royal decree.’ Mr Cardew cleared his throat and beamed across his desk. ‘Well, Mr Scott, to my considerable surprise, upon investigating more deeply, it would appear that this piece of parchment may well still be valid. It may indeed from your point of view be, if you’ll pardon me mixing my metaphors, the answer to a maiden’s prayer, the…’
Duggie supplied the missing words. ‘The dog’s bollocks.’
‘Quite. Quite right, Mr Scott, the proverbial dog’s indeed.’ Mr Cardew shuffled the papers in front of him, read out a few relevant points, legal precedents and judgements and summarised. ‘Currently, as I said, it is not the act of prostitution itself which is illegal. It is those who seek to profit from it, by acting as pimps or,’ he coughed delicately, ‘running brothels, who are committing an illegal act. All of them, that is, except… except, it would appear, those operating out of Toplingham Manor. And that would be you, Mr Scott.’
Duggie beamed. This was exactly what he had wanted to hear.
‘To the best of my knowledge, you would only need to obtain clearance from the Health and Safety Executive for the use of the rooms for paying accommodation. Get that, and you can open the doors to your public.’ He squared up the sheets of paper and replaced them neatly in the buff folder. ‘Yes, pretty soon you could be up and running.’ He allowed himself a salacious smile. ‘Or at least up, anyway.’
Duggie sat back and digested the news. To be honest, in spite of the enthusiasm he had shown initially, he had never really believed that a thousand-year-old decree could still hold water. A piece of dog skin, issued by a long-lost king, in a long-dead language, probably only of interest to a handful of crusty academics, and, yet, it still had legal status in the twenty-first century. This sudden thought of crusty academics had an instantly sobering effect upon his burgeoning optimism. Roger would never hear of it. He knew that all too well. Let alone Linda…
So could he arrange things so that his new employer never did hear of it, he wondered? Here, at least, his friend’s obsession with Saint Bernard and the twelfth century offered some chance of success. Linda, on the other hand, would be trickier. However, he thought to himself, relations between Roger and Linda had evidently cooled dramatically in the last few days. The other evening’s dinner party at her house had pretty obviously been a disaster. So maybe she might not be around for much longer. Not for the first time that day, he wondered just what had, or had not, happened that night in Linda’s apartment.
‘Just one thing, Mr Scott.’ The solicitor’s voice held a note of caution. ‘I would advise against publicly advertising this new departure. Although it would appear that you would not be breaking any laws, I would suggest that such a story, were it to get to the ears of the media, might spark
off a lot of very negative publicity. It might even prompt the government to rush through legislation that could close you down.’
Duggie had been thinking very much the same thing himself. His fear hadn’t been so much the tabloids getting to hear about it, as his employer. But, if he couldn’t advertise the fact, how would he get clients?
Mr Cardew’s mind was running along similar lines.
‘Word of mouth, Mr Scott. I am sure a man with your contacts would have no trouble ensuring that this gets to the ears of a few discreet men. I imagine you envisage creating a high-class establishment that would appeal to a privileged clientele. Were you not until recently involved with the professions yourself?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Indeed, I would be happy to mention it to a few of my colleagues and acquaintances in my own profession, if you agree.’
Duggie began to see where this was leading. ‘Thank you, Mr Cardew. That is an excellent idea. And once we are up and running, I would be delighted if you would honour us with your company. That way you can experience the services we offer for yourself. My treat, of course.’
The older man flushed expectantly. A hint of perspiration appeared above his upper lip. He would be pleased to accept the kind invitation. Both men studiously avoided looking at the photograph of the family group on the wall. Duggie shook the solicitor’s slightly clammy hand and left the warmth of his office for the chill autumnal winds outside.
Chapter 16
Tina was on her knees by the sofa, petting the dog. Jasper was stretched out blissfully on the rug, belly up, all four legs in the air. To Duggie, once he could drag his eyes off the perfection of Tina’s wonderful body, it was pretty clear that the dog was not pining for Roger. It was, however, unlikely the same could be said for Linda. He had related to Tina the little that he knew of the abortive seduction, mainly the gelid aftermath. Tina, with her usual feminine insight, had immediately decided that Roger must have ‘blotted his copy book’.