Secrets at Toplingham Manor

Both Linda and Duggie, who knew him so well, were struck by this rare insight. This was, however, the end of the revelations. He fell silent. His mind was clearly already heading back to the Middle Ages when Duggie stepped in.

‘A toast.’

He held up his glass in their direction. The erstwhile university professor raised his glass absently. Linda snatched a mineral water from a passing waitress and joined in, unaware of the regret in Roger’s eyes as her hand was removed from his arm. Duggie waxed lyrical.

‘Here’s to your life at Toplingham Manor. May you find happiness and success. No, hang on a minute. You already have. How stupid of me to forget. So, here’s to your life at the manor and happiness and success to the rest of us. All right?’

Their glasses touched, and they drank the health of the lucky man. Then, remarkably, Roger Dalby stayed in the present day. Looking up, he asked the question that had been on his mind since seeing the manor for the first time, a few weeks before.

‘Now what do I do with a damn great house like the manor? Linda and I only need a couple of rooms at most.’ Oblivious to her surge of hope, he continued. ‘And another couple for me to sleep and eat in. I’m still left with over thirty spare rooms, and some of them are huge, as big as this ballroom.’

The crest of the wave of Linda’s emotions crashed back into its trough again. ‘Why don’t you start some kind of business?’ Her voice gave nothing away. ‘Maybe a hotel?’

But she tailed off, realising that even Basil Fawlty would make a better hotelier than Roger. He would no doubt be able to take an order for dinner, but would then most probably disappear into his study for the rest of the day. The customers would be left to starve. Hours later he would be found, looking up some arcane fact to do with his beloved saint. Duggie, however, had a practical solution.

‘A club. That’s what the old place would lend itself to. A private club with leisure facilities and entertainment. After all, there is a decent golf course hidden away in the grounds. All right, it’s a bit overgrown and only nine holes, but even so… And the old squash courts won’t need too much to get them back in operation. Toplingham Country Club. I can see it now.’

His arms were spread out wide, his eyes screwed shut, as he visualised the scene. A tasteful gold-lettered sign, pinned to the stone pillars outside the manor, floodlit at night, naturally. As he did so, his outstretched right hand brushed against something reassuringly warm and soft. He was delighted when he opened his eyes to see Tina Pound, coming over to offer her congratulations to Roger. He treated her to his most engaging smile.

‘Hello again. You’ve come back to me. I assume you know our illustrious host and hostess?’

Linda reddened, but managed a smile at Tina. They knew each other well from the university. ‘Hi, Tina. I didn’t know you and Douglas were friends.’

Duggie was quick to reply on her behalf, his hand catching hers and drawing her closer. ‘We may only have met a few minutes ago, but I feel we know each other so very well already.’ He kissed her bare shoulder affectionately.

Tina gave Linda a smile in return, while gently fending him off. ‘Half man, half octopus. Just my type.’

Linda watched their easy exchange enviously. Somehow they made this relationship thing look so very easy. She glanced across at Roger. As far as establishing a relationship with him was concerned, easy it most certainly wasn’t.

Roger nodded absently towards Tina. His mind was still on the manor, and Duggie’s suggested change of use.

‘All very well, Duggie. The club’s a great idea, but who could run it for me?’ He seemed unexpectedly taken with the idea. ‘Now that I am finally able to concentrate on the definitive history of St Bernard, I can hardly find the time to run a club. I might as well have stayed on in the department. Unless…’ His eyes met Duggie’s and, with an unusual degree of perspicacity, he immediately saw the answer to his question. ‘Unless you would feel like doing it – as a favour to me, Duggie? After all, your background in estate agency is sort of the same field, isn’t it?’

Duggie felt there was little to be gained from pointing out the many differences between selling houses and hospitality management. He settled for a broad smile of acquiescence, and the chance to run his right hand lightly down across the taut buttocks of Tina Pound. She didn’t slap him and he took that as a good sign.

‘Do you know? I think I might well be up for it.’ He sounded very keen.

Tina glanced across at him, a delicious feeling of anticipation warming her. He certainly wasn’t backwards at coming forwards.

‘Does that mean you’d consider giving it a try?’ Roger Dalby was genuinely pleased that his oldest friend might be prepared to help him out. For her part, Linda, despite her reservations about Duggie as a bad influence, could see that he would be a natural for the position.

‘The more I think about it, the better it sounds.’ Duggie was definitely warming to the idea. ‘I’ll give it some thought and get back to you.’

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted. Linda’s smile faded as she saw the scruffy figure of Edgar Lean stagger into view. The grubby lapels of his suit had clearly absorbed almost as much wine as he had. Any inhibitions he might have had, had been drowned by the alcohol.

‘Linda. You’re lovely. Give us a kiss.’ He lurched towards her.

‘Mr Lean, really!’ She affected her sternest voice as she addressed him. He chose to ignore her, raising his hand unsuccessfully to his mouth to stifle a burp.

‘Go on, darling. You know you want to.’

‘Bloody hell, Edgar. What do you think you are doing?’

Linda was impressed by the way Roger sprang to her defence. He gave Edgar Lean an icy glare.

‘Behave yourself, please.’

‘Keep your shirt on, Prof.’ He leered malevolently at him. ‘Only you get to touch the lovely Linda, is that it?’

Roger took a step forward, his temper rising.

Duggie felt it incumbent upon himself to intervene, before the host got embroiled in the fracas that the other man was clearly trying to provoke. Regretfully relinquishing the warmth of Tina Pound, he slipped swiftly across to position himself between the two men. With his broad shoulders turned towards Roger, he spoke to Lean in a friendly voice.

‘I think it might be best if you were to leave now, don’t you? I think you have maybe taken advantage of the hospitality a little too much.’

In return, Lean re-directed his hatred towards him. He hissed. ‘I’m not drunk, you twat. This is between me and?’ Duggie did not let him finish.

‘I’m a peace-loving person. But it’s only fair to warn you that the last person to talk to me like that ended up with a broken jaw.’ He moved a few inches closer and lowered his voice into a confidential whisper. ‘So why don’t you be a good boy and get the fuck out of here now. I really think you have outstayed your welcome.’

There was a brief, stunned, silence before Edgar Lean demonstrated that he was maybe not quite as stupid, or as drunk, as he looked. He turned on his heel and lurched out of the room. Duggie cleared his throat, rearranged his lapels and returned to the waiting presence of Tina. He was gratified to feel her hand grip his bicep. She squeezed it appreciatively.

‘Sure you aren’t a nightclub bouncer? It looked as if you’ve done that before a few times.’

‘Did you really break somebody’s jaw?’ Linda, to her amazement, found herself quite relishing this outpouring of testosterone from the men around her.

‘My God, no.’ Duggie had reverted to type. ‘Not my kind of thing at all. I was just counting on it not being his either.’

Roger, who had driven him to A&E to have his dislocated finger relocated the day after the incident in question, did not disabuse them. Indeed, Roger, over the years, had been with him in several other similar circumstances. If Duggie preferred to be thought of as mild-mannered and peaceable, that was his affair.

‘Nasty little wretch.’ Roger watched the door close behind Lean. ‘And trying to insinuate that I would lay a finger on you, Linda.’

Chance would be a fine thing, she thought wistfully.

Tina from Geography asked the question on all their lips.

‘Who the hell was he, and what on earth was that all about?’ She looked around the others. ‘Just too much to drink, or was there more to it than that?’

‘He’s one of my postgrads.’ Roger was recovering his aplomb. ‘He’s not very happy about my passing him over to another supervisor for his doctorate. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he had an unhealthy interest in Linda.’

‘I thought I could hear the old green-eyed devil. Have you been aware that you have another suitor, Linda?’ Tina smiled at Linda’s discomfiture. Her relationship, or the lack of it, with Roger had been a standing joke across the campus for years. To her delight, Roger jumped in, right on cue, to further demonstrate his lack of awareness.

‘What do you mean, another suitor?’ Turning to Linda he asked, ‘Have you got a suitor?’

Once again Duggie confirmed his credentials as a diplomat, and earned a glance full of gratitude from Linda. He stepped in and steered the conversation into safer territory.

‘Now, Roger, you really should go and devote some time to your guests.’ He glanced around the crowded room. ‘Maybe you could see if you can find second cousin Mabel. As for me, I have to leave now.’ He glanced across at Tina. ‘Something’s just come up.’

As Linda lead Roger back into the throng, Duggie heard her reassuring him. ‘Of course I haven’t got a suitor. Why ever would you think that?’

Duggie turned to Tina and tightened his grip on her.

‘Now, where were we?’

Tina had by now got the measure of him.

‘I seem to remember you had just confessed that you were a social pariah. And yet I’m still here.’ She felt the warmth of his body against hers, and smiled. ‘I’ve always thought the direct approach was best. Why don’t you stop beating about the bush. Drop the corny lines and say what’s on your mind.’ She saw his eyes flick down to her bosom. ‘So, is there something you’d like to get off your chest, Mr Scott?’ She smiled sweetly.

‘And where might I find this bush you would like me to beat about in?’

‘Use your initiative, Duggie.’

She felt herself drawn towards him, until his lips were at her ear.

‘Would you like a shag then, Tina?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

Chapter 3

‘That was your friend Duggie there. Did you see him?’

Linda rarely missed anything, while Roger rarely noticed anything. Unless it was a spelling mistake in a thousand-year-old manuscript.

Roger swung his head to the right. He just spotted Duggie sitting in his old Porsche, waiting for the red light to change. There was no sign of recognition on his face, but maybe the brand-new car Roger was driving was not yet familiar to his friend.

‘He probably doesn’t recognise the car yet.’ Linda, as usual, was on the same wavelength. ‘After all, you’ve only had it a week.’

The new car had been her suggestion. His previous one had been an accident waiting to happen; assuming, of course, that it could be persuaded to start in the first place. They had gone for a sober dark-blue model, comfortable on the inside, but not flashy externally. ‘Not like that red sports car of his!’ She settled back in her seat again. She let her eyes run over the pristine leather and walnut around her. Being with a multi-millionaire definitely had its advantages.

Duggie did not notice them pass. The early morning sun was shining diagonally across his windscreen. He was fascinated as it picked out the clear image left by a pair of bare feet, just above dashboard level. Neat, small, feminine feet, highlighted in a spectrum of colour. He smiled to himself as the lights changed to amber. Roger’s farewell bash had been a very good do, but not a patch on the energetic romp with Tina Pound that had only finished a few hours ago. He stretched and yawned. The lights changed to green, and he accelerated off in the direction of Toplingham Manor, unaware that his future employer had just passed him on his way to the RSPCA.

‘Roger, you do realise that they don’t normally have St Bernard dogs at the RSPCA, don’t you?’ Linda was not quite sure whether his suggestion the previous evening had been in fun or not. He set her mind to rest.

‘Of course. Anyway, I would never want a big dog like that. No, let’s go for a little mutt. But you can choose.’

He cast her a quick glance. She looked as lovely as ever. He actually allowed a sigh to escape his lips.

‘That was a big sigh? Are you tired after the party last night?’ There was a note of concern in her voice. ‘I thought you handled it remarkably well. Did you know? The caterers said there were almost two hundred guests.’

He did not know that. As far as he was concerned, it had been an unavoidable evil that he had survived rather than enjoyed. St Bernard had been reclusive as well. Bernard had no time for social graces. Not for the first time, Roger found himself wondering whether he, too, should have chosen the monastic life, maybe even joining the Cistercians like St Bernard himself.

The notion died stillborn. There were, after all, two major obstacles to his becoming a monk. Firstly, and this was a serious stumbling block, he did not believe in God. Another surreptitious glance across to his left reminded him of the second. Celibacy was a prerequisite for any monk. He knew all too well he would find this impossible. All the same, he reflected grimly, he had been effectively celibate for so long now, he really needed to find the courage to do something about it.

‘I must say, Linda, that the success of the evening was due to you. I would have made a complete hash of organising a do for two hundred people. You are amazing. I really don’t know what I would do without you.’

She sighed.

Their arrival at the Sunny Combe Animal Shelter prevented him from heaping any further praise upon her.

‘Here we are.’

Roger pulled into a tight parking space. They both climbed out of the car, to be assailed by an impenetrable wall of sound; barking, howling and growling. Linda gave him a reassuring smile. She would have taken his hand, except that she felt it would not have been seemly.

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.