Читать книгу The Room on the Second Floor - T Williams A - Страница 12

Chapter 4

Over on the other side of town, Duggie was making his first serious tour of inspection of Toplingham Manor. The initial impression was very imposing. Granite gate posts, with gryphons on the tops, gave way to a wide gravelled drive. This led up the slope from the main road, several hundred yards long, to the house. It snaked through the overgrown deer park, dotted with specimen trees ranging from massive oaks to giant cedars. To his estate agent’s eye, it was pretty clear that the house itself was Georgian and equally clear that it could do with a lot of TLC. The slate roof looked solid, but tired. A few patches of plaster on the walls had blown and peeled. Nothing too serious, he thought to himself as he pulled up in the car park opposite the front door.

A porch, comfortably wide enough to keep the rain off the heads of any visiting nobility alighting from their carriages, was supported by four imposing columns. A white marble stairway led up to the doors. As instructed by Roger, he ignored them and made his way round to the back of the house.

Without too much difficulty, he located the key. It was knotted onto a length of string, dangling inside the letterbox of the door to the servants’ quarters. So it was that he came into the building through the kitchens. A few empty cardboard boxes and a row of black rubbish sacks were lined up, ready to be thrown out. Alongside them were half a dozen empty champagne bottles, presumably the remnants of Uncle Eustace’s cellar.

Now that’s not a bad idea, he thought to himself. He tugged open one of the fridges. He was rewarded by the sight of a number of full bottles, and one half-empty. As he pulled it out, he was unsurprised to see the label bearing the crest of McKinnon Marine. The cork came out with a reassuring pop. Unable to see a glass, he picked up a mug sporting the same crest, and filled it to the top.

‘This is the life,’ he murmured to himself as he raised it to his lips. A split second later, he felt a stab in the back from a blunt, but nonetheless painful, implement. He spilt half his champagne onto his shoe. He was on the point of spinning round, when a menacing voice rooted him to the spot.

‘Now where the bejesus would you be thinking of going, you thieving scoundrel? I’ve got a good mind to blow your kidneys straight into your pancreas and out through your duodenum. I’ll take my chances with the police, by the holy virgin of Lourdes if I won’t.’

Duggie knew a thing or two about firearms, so he stayed dead still. The barrel of the gun pushed ever more insistently into him. Single barrel, wide enough to be a shotgun, twelve-bore, maybe bigger. He found himself analysing the sensation quite dispassionately. Old habits die hard. Hopefully he was dealing with one of the staff his friend had inherited. He cleared his throat and spoke in mild tones.

‘No need for the threats. I am on your side, honest.’ He sensed a slight faltering in the resolve of his assailant. ‘My name is Douglas Scott, a good friend of Professor Dalby and, so long as you don’t carry out your threat, the future manager of this place.’ This time the pressure in the small of his back reduced to just the slightest hint, so he decided to risk turning round. ‘Professor Dalby told me he had called, to let you know I was coming.’

Upon turning right round, he found himself face to face with a very small, wiry, white-haired man. He was probably in his seventies, or even older. His arthritic hands were holding a broom handle, pointed in his direction. A slightly sheepish expression began to creep across the old freckled face, as he realised who he was dealing with. Now it was his time to clear his throat.

‘By all that is holy, so that’s who you are, sir. And me about to blow your innards to kingdom come. Lucky this thing wasn’t loaded. You might have found yourself trying to shovel yards of intestines off the kitchen wall and back into your abdominal cavity!’

He proffered the broom to Duggie, who took it from his hands. He snapped it neatly across his thigh, before tossing it into the corner out of sight. As the old man extended the hand of peace towards his future employer, he noted the look in Duggie’s eyes.

‘Patrick O’Sullivan at your service.’

Duggie took the proffered hand and shook it formally. He kept it in his, as he stared the old Irishman square in the eye. Patrick dropped his gaze. He had seen enough hard men in his time to realise that his hoax could well have backfired on him. Then his hand was released, and Duggie was all sweetness and light.

‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Patrick. I must say how impressed I was at your courage in accosting a potential burglar armed only with your wits. I can see that you are a truly committed member of staff and worthy of trust and responsibility.’

A smile spread across the old man’s face. ‘Pleased to be of service, sir. It’s a relief to me that I didn’t end up strewing your vital organs across the kitchen floor.’

‘And to me.’ Duggie’s reply was terse. The old man hurried on.

‘And please call me by my familiar name just like my beloved mother, brothers and close friends.’

‘Paddy, would it be?’ Duggie was not taking too much of a stab in the dark which, thinking about it, was what he had narrowly avoided.

‘It would indeed, sir. Fancy you guessing my name now. Sure and as long as my atria and my ventricles keep pumping, it will be a pleasure to spend the next five decades working alongside a bright and worthy gentleman such as your good self.’

Christ, thought Duggie, fifty years would take him well past the telegram from the queen and into the Guinness Book of Records. ‘And what is your position in this establishment?’

‘Well…’ There was a dramatic pause, probably occasioned by the Irishman being faced with a question rarely asked of him. ‘I would be what you might call a general factotum, Jack of all trades and general passepartout, in the sense that I would normally be carrying out all such tasks that do not automatically fall within the remit of the other staff members here at the manor.’ He smiled hopefully.

Duggie wisely decided not to dig too much further. There would be time for that later. With a clap of his hand on the old man’s shoulder, he took his leave and set out on his tour of inspection.

He walked slowly, the mug still in his hand, gradually allowing his blood to settle. He marvelled at the sheer size of the place. No doubt at all that it would make a great country club. He sipped what little was left of his champagne, feeling more than slightly debauched to be drinking champagne at the time when most people were contemplating their coffee break. Presumably one of Paddy’s tasks that did not automatically fall within the remit of the other staff members was that of ensuring that the contents of the cellar did not go to waste. That, too, would be dealt with later.

The idea of getting into something completely new appealed to him. His had been a chequered career. First he had tried accountancy then, after a somewhat hasty departure from Messrs Smith, Endicott, Loveless and Joyce, he joined the Royal Marines. He spent a number of years in the service, much of it overseas, doing a variety of things, some of which he could talk about. Much, though, he kept to himself.

After leaving, once the wounds had healed, he had tried various jobs, until he hit upon estate agency. He had turned out to be a very good estate agent. ‘Seller of fridges to Eskimos,’ was the way his boss had described him at last year’s Christmas party. There was no doubt he could sniff out a sale better than anyone else in the firm. He felt sure it would come as a blow to them when he handed in his notice. And, he thought with great satisfaction, as he pushed through the monumental carved doors into the formal dining room, he would do that very shortly. Just as soon as he and Roger had agreed terms for his future employment as boss of the country club.

What should he call himself? Manager had leapt to his lips during his encounter with Paddy, but was that the right one? Director? Chief Executive? Yes, CEO sounded good. He would go for that.

The staircase to the first floor led up from the hallway. This was to be Roger’s private apartment, so Duggie pressed on up to the second floor.

Corridors led off to left and right and a seemingly never-ending series of doors opened onto high-ceilinged bedrooms, some with four-poster beds and enormous wardrobes. Duggie wondered to himself, as he walked down the corridors, if there were some way he could make profitable use of all this space. The big reception rooms downstairs, the kitchens, the tennis courts and sports facilities outside were of immediate usefulness, but the upstairs would need thought.

He walked out through a glazed door onto the flat roof. The value of the lead on the roof alone would be more than most people’s annual income, his included, he calculated wryly. Lucky, lucky man that Roger.

They had known each other for over thirty years, having met at primary school. The death of Roger’s parents had brought them even closer together, although their chosen careers had diverged quite dramatically. Not, he thought to himself, that you could really apply the term ‘chosen career’ to his own series of jobs, apart from the ten years in the Marines. With Roger it had been history, history, history all the way.

He was admiring the extent of the grounds surrounding the manor when his attention was suddenly drawn down to the car park directly below him. A big blue Volvo drew up. The back door was thrown open and a familiar figure with a blond ponytail shot out. It was Linda. She hurried round to open the tailgate. To his amazement, no sooner had it opened, than something the size and appearance of a black bear shot out of the back of the car and propelled her into a rhododendron bush. Spotting Roger emerging from the driver’s seat, he decided to go down and investigate.

On his way through the kitchen, he deposited his now-empty mug without setting eyes on Paddy. He was presumably somewhere behaving as general factotum, Jack of all trades and general passepartout, whatever that involved. Duggie had a shrewd idea that the answer was, not a lot.