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.
‘Here, Jasper. Steady boy. Good dog.’
Roger didn’t have much experience with dogs. In consequence, he was unsure of the correct terminology when trying to rescue a maiden in distress. Emerging from the car, he found his newly acquired mongrel cross of Labrador, Alsatian and, quite possibly, wolf, tangled up in the bush on top of Linda. Her head and shoulders were completely obscured by a mass of black fur. So much for not wanting a big dog. Her feet were kicking and muffled cries of protest emerged from the undergrowth.
‘Good dog, Jasper.’ He went over to lend a hand. The three of them were just emerging from the bush in various states of dishevelment, when they were joined by Duggie.
‘Now, now, Rog. Rolling in the bushes with your staff is taking the lord of the manor thing a bit far, you know. Leave the poor girl alone. Whoa…down boy!’
He missed seeing the rush of blood to their faces, as the new arrival threw itself at him in wild and effusive greeting. This time it was his turn to find himself in the undergrowth.
‘For Christ’s sake, Roger. What is this thing? A bloody grizzly? It’s enormous!’ The dog would have leapt on him again, except for deciding that it had to sit down urgently, and scratch its right ear with a hind leg. Roger took advantage of the brief truce to clip on the lead and brace himself in readiness for the next round.
‘Douglas, meet Jasper. Jasper, meet Douglas.’ Linda was in fine spirits, in spite of her tousled hair and flushed complexion. Her eyes sparkled in a way that had Duggie thinking back nostalgically to Tina Pound. A credit to the Geography Department and, if he were honest, the best thing to happen to him for years. Tearing himself away from his recollections, he reached out and stroked the big, heavy head with his hand. Miraculously, this seemed to do the trick. Within seconds, the great beast had rolled onto its back and was rhythmically treading water with one leg while he tickled its tummy.
‘Oh, Douglas. You must have magic fingers.’ Linda was impressed, as was Duggie at her choice of very much the same words used by Tina only a few hours previously. The net result had been discarded clothes all over his bedroom floor, and a series of damp patches on his sheets. Luckily, his caresses had the opposite effect upon their four-legged friend. The dog calmed down remarkably, until he was able to walk in a fairly civilised manner with them up to the front door. After a struggle, this yielded to Roger’s key. They stepped into the echoing building.
Duggie told them of his brush with death by broomstick half an hour previously. ‘Are there any other would-be assassins lurking round here I should know about?’
Roger looked a little sheepish. ‘I have to confess that I’m not terribly sure who works here.’ He stretched his arms out helplessly. ‘You see, the deeds don’t mention that sort of thing. I’m assuming the full details are in the desk in the office. Unfortunately the desk itself is locked, and I have not been able to locate the key. The only person I’ve spoken to here was on the telephone and, apart from a strong Irish accent, I can’t even tell you his name.’
‘That would be Paddy, the fastest broom in the west.’
Roger led them through the vast entrance hall and up the magnificent staircase to the study on the first floor.
The desk was an enormous roll-top affair, made of a dark wood that could have been mahogany. It was freshly polished and dusted, as was the door handle. Duggie took a long look around while Roger gave the lock a serious shaking. Linda did her best to stop the dog from jumping on top of it. The bookshelves were packed with leather-bound volumes. Apart from worthy fiction, there were useful works of non-fiction, including a variety of atlases, nautical tables for seemingly every port in the world, and bound copies of the Lloyds Register since 1800. No sign of a key.
‘I suppose you could force it open. But it would be a shame to damage such a whopping great piece of furniture. Maybe one of the staff knows where the key is…’ Duggie’s voice tailed off. Then he had a thought. ‘Wait a minute, there is at least our friend Patrick, assuming I can find him again. He should know who else is employed here. Let me go and look for him.’
He turned and made his way out of the door, followed by the others. He led them back in the direction of the kitchen. They had only gone a few yards before he was very nearly tripped up by Jasper, the giant hound. The three of them watched, aghast, as the dog sprinted off down the highly polished wooden floor, gaining speed along the way.
Unfortunately, not only did the dog not know where the kitchens were, he was travelling far too fast on the parquet floor. In consequence he failed to negotiate the right-angle bend at the end of the corridor. They watched in horror as he lost his footing and slid sideways, hopelessly out of control, before smashing into an imposing grandfather clock. The clock, solid as it was, did not stand a chance. There was a thunderous crash. What the inventory had referred to as an immaculate example of the seventeenth-century horologist’s art was reduced to matchwood, and the dog to stunned immobility.
‘Bloody hell.’
Duggie hastened down the corridor towards the scene of devastation and surveyed the remains. No question, the clock was a complete write-off. The fine-precision mechanism had shed springs and cogs all over the floor. The face was in three separate pieces, surrounded by a sea of broken glass. As for the wooden case, it would only be of use as firewood. There was, however, a surprisingly solid square structure still intact in the midst of the carnage. He bent down and picked up a finely carved and evidently ancient wooden chest. It was about the size of a shoe-box. The initials T T had been professionally carved into the lid. He noticed that the impact had torn the brass hinges from their mountings, although the lock on the front seemed undamaged. He turned and proffered it to Roger.
‘The treasure of Toplingham maybe?’ He smiled hopefully. ‘Or at least a few good cigars. By the way,’ he surveyed the disaster area round their feet. ‘I hope you took out insurance.’
Roger was more concerned with trying to prevent the dog from lacerating his paws on the broken glass that littered the corridor. He passed the box across to Linda without a word and stepped gingerly over to a mercifully subdued Jasper.
‘Come on, Crusher. Let’s get you away from here and into the kitchen.’ Hand firmly clenched on the dog’s collar, he led them down the stairs once more. They walked along to the kitchen, and he only released his grip when the door behind them was firmly shut. The dog sat down meekly and allowed Roger to check his paws for splinters, and to remove a handful of antique springs and sprockets from his fur.
‘Roger…’ Duggie and he both turned as one. Linda’s voice was unusually excited. ‘Look…What do you think of this?’
She had lifted the lid off the little wooden box, and was looking down