Now it was Duggie’s turn to fantasise. In his case, it was of a string of bedroom doors, all open, all looking inviting. He was walking down the corridor, looking inside each one. On every bed there was a sexy, semi-clad beauty, beckoning invitingly. Strangest of all, they all bore Tina’s face. He shook himself out of his reverie. God, it must be love.
Roger, unaware of his friend’s moment of damascene enlightenment, sifted through the other papers. These were all deeds of ownership of houses and farms. ‘Certainly our friend Thomas of Toplingham and his descendants were very wealthy people. Very wealthy indeed.’
‘Good to know you’re keeping up the tradition, Rog.’
Duggie handed in his notice that afternoon. Roger had been more than generous with the financial package and Duggie felt like celebrating. He called Tina, and took her out for dinner. As they drank champagne and ate oysters, he related the events of the day to her. She was impressed.
‘How exciting! Ancient manuscripts. And the manor was really a house of ill repute?’ She swallowed another oyster, and followed it with a sip of champagne. She knew this was going to be a very special night. ‘So there must have been hanky panky going on all over the house, maybe even in Roger’s study?’ She giggled at the thought. Roger and hanky panky were not words that often appeared together in the same sentence.
‘Except for the fact that the present-day manor was only built in 1817, along with virtually everything else in the place.’ Duggie wasn’t an estate agent for nothing.
‘And so handsome with it.’ Tina was still thinking about hanky panky with Roger. She raised her eyes and looked across the table affectionately. ‘Present company excepted, of course. Seems downright unfair, doesn’t it? And, of course, the good bit is that he doesn’t seem to realise it. If he wasn’t already taken, I might consider joining the queue myself. There’s something about rich, handsome men.’
‘When you say, “already taken”?’ Duggie was smiling. ‘How long will it be, do you think, before one of them manages to pop the question?’
‘Pop the question? They haven’t even laid a finger on each other yet, as far as I know. I can see this one going the distance.’
‘And Linda’s a lovely-looking girl. Just a bit shy, both of them. Maybe they need some oysters.’
‘How many oysters have you eaten?’ She was counting the empty shells on his plate.
‘Six. You know what they say about oysters. You could be in for a night to remember, if they all work.’
‘I know it’s going to be a night to remember, oysters or no oysters.’
He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Do you know, Tina? I really quite like you.’ He kissed the tips of her fingers. They tasted fishy.
‘And I really quite like you, too.’ She already knew what Duggie tasted like.
Next morning, after a short visit to break the news to his employers, Duggie continued his inspection of the manor. It was a real voyage of discovery. His first discovery was Mrs Vinnicombe.
Mrs Vinnicombe materialised from the general direction of the scullery carrying a dustpan and brush. Carrying is too weak a term. She carried a dustpan in the same way that Wyatt Earp carried his Colt 45, or a Samurai his sword. Her determined manner, and steely eye for grime, made clear to all and sundry that she was a woman with a mission. Her muscular arms – attached to a sturdy body of generous proportions – were dedicated to the eradication of dirt, wherever it might be. Indeed, upon catching sight of Duggie, her first action had been to bowl right up to him and vigorously rub some minute speck of dirt from his shirt. The sight of such a large figure, brandishing something in its hand, approaching him at a rate of knots was daunting. He recovered quickly – after all, a duster was in a different league from a loaded broom handle – and played the affable employer with some success.
‘Ah, good morning and you are…’
She barked out her name.
He repeated it, while he studied her; ‘Mrs Vinnicombe, how nice to meet you. And you are the…?’
‘Housekeeper.’ No time to waste. There was dirt out there, waiting to be combated. It was the proverbial dirty job, and she was the woman to do it. Duggie took in her aggressive attitude and wisely decided to make an ally of her, rather than an opponent.
‘I must congratulate you on the general air of sparkling cleanliness in the whole house. It is a rare pleasure to find oneself in an environment where such evident care has been taken.’ He beamed in her direction and was rewarded by just the hint of a smile. Good, he thought to himself, I’m getting there.
‘Tell me, Mrs Vinnicombe, who are the other members of staff here at the manor?’
‘There’s Patrick.’
‘Yes, I have already met him.’
‘Oh, you were lucky. He doesn’t seem to be around very much.’ There was disapproval in her voice. ‘And then there’s Stan. He’s the gardener. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him. He’s here all the time. It’s a huge job he’s got. There used to be a team of groundsmen once upon a time. Now he’s got to do it all by himself.’ He caught a definite tone of respect for the gardener’s industriousness.
‘Anybody else, Mrs Vinnicombe?’
Her tone became glacial. ‘Well, theoretically, there’s the butler. But I haven’t seen him for months.’
‘And what might his name be?’
‘Henri.’
Her pronunciation was not perfect and, in fairness, nobody had told Duggie that there was a foreign member of staff – unless you counted Paddy. So it took a few moments before he realised that the butler was probably of French extraction rather than somebody working for nothing in an honorary position.
‘Ah, Henri.’ He repeated the name a few times. ‘So that’s the lot? Just the four of you?’
‘That is correct, sir. And, just think, only ten years ago there was a staff of twenty.’ This time he could clearly hear the regret in her voice. He did his best to cheer her up.
‘Well, Mrs Vinnicombe, that is all going to change. Now that Professor Dalby is here, we are going to see that the manor returns to its glory days.’
She beamed. Then, excusing herself, she set off again with her duster. He watched her go.
In the absence of the butler, he decided to look around outside, in the hope that the gardener might be forthcoming. In front of the manor was a pair of superb cedars. No doubt planted generations, if not centuries, earlier, they were now absolutely huge. The lower branch of the bigger one was the girth of most other fully grown trees. So big indeed, that it had to be supported by a couple of massive props. A squirrel sat on its hind legs and surveyed Duggie’s approach from the relative safety of the next branch up. Stan the Gardener watched him from the seat of a garden tractor. Of the two, the squirrel looked more likely to give a civil reply to a question, but Duggie tried Stan anyway.
‘You must be Stan, the gardener.’
‘Must I?’
Not a good start. Duggie eyed the squirrel tentatively, but decided to give the gardener one more try.
‘Hello. My name is Douglas Scott. I’m the new chief executive.’
‘Chief executive of what?’
Terse, chilly, but, nonetheless a fair