‘Been telling them for years something needed to be done to the place. Old Mr McKinnon let it all go to pot in his final years, when he went doolally. Mind you, he was bed-ridden for the last three, or that might even be four, so he never even saw the gardens towards the end.’
Stan was a tall, rather gangly, individual, with one of those cavernous, morose faces that so rarely look happy, even if the owner is. As so often happens, the face had given up trying. As a result, Stan constantly looked as though he had just stepped in something. He was now, however, showing signs of uncharacteristic animation. Duggie felt a minor victory might have been achieved.
‘The gardens look wonderful, I must say. And how about the golf course?’ A troubled grimace crossed the already lugubrious face in front of him.
‘Breaks my heart. Could be superb, but golf courses take time and men. Here it’s just me, and it’s all I can do to mow the grass. The greens are indistinguishable from the fairways, and the bloody rabbits are digging holes everywhere.’
Duggie decided against making a joke along the lines of how he thought it was only a nine-hole course. Instead, he changed tack and sounded Stan out on the other members of the staff.
‘So there are just the four of you here, then?’
‘More like three, if you ask me – and only two of us do any work.’ His drooping mouth curled up into a brief sneer as Duggie asked him what he meant. ‘Our French friend. Conspicuous by his absence.’ Duggie picked up on this.
‘That’s the butler, you mean? Why is he absent? Is he sick?’
Stan replied reluctantly. ‘You’d better ask him that, Mr Scott.’
Duggie tried to prod a bit more about the butler.
‘So where might I find the butler? Any idea?’
Stan studied him for a moment. ‘Try asking at the Prince William. Just along the road at the entrance to Toplingham.’ His eyes flicked across to a figure coming up the drive. ‘I see that Patrick has ventured forth from the comforts of home, so I’ll leave the two of you together.’
He turned the key in the ignition, and the tractor roared into life. Duggie gave him a wave of the hand, and watched him leave in the direction of the first tee, assuming it was still there under all the undergrowth. Behind him, he heard the unmistakable tones of the Irishman.
‘A very good afternoon to you, Mr Scott. Would you be out for a constitutional to allow the ingestion of oxygen through your pharynx, down your trachea, and into the labyrinth that would be your bronchi, with all their clusters of alveoli, now would you?’
Duggie had to stop and think for a moment.
‘A breath of fresh air?’ He hazarded the translation. Paddy was impressed.
‘Sure and a fine grasp of the medical you have, to be sure. Your cranium surely houses a cerebral cortex of monumental proportions, now it does so, too.’
Duggie was beginning to find the conversation a little wearing.
‘I’m sure that’s right, Paddy, but tell me, do you think I might be able to find the butler down at the Prince William? Stan the gardener tells me he likes to hang out there.’
The old man gave him a knowing wink. ‘That he might, that he might. Sure and you could do far worse than begin your investigations there. A gentleman such as yourself, with an outstanding composite cognitive ability, you will find him for sure, that you will, you will.’
Duggie decided to reply in kind.
‘Paddy, has anybody ever told you, your constant references to medical terminology can make you a right case of haemorrhoids?’ The factotum looked uncertain, so Duggie explained.
‘A right pain in the arse, Paddy. A right pain in the arse.’
He patted him on the scapula with the prehensile multi-fingered body part at the end of his arm and set off for the car.
From the window of the study on the first floor, Linda watched the car disappear down the drive.
‘Duggie seems really keen to get on with things.’ She sounded impressed.
She turned back from the window and came over to where Roger was seated at the desk. He quickly averted his eyes, which had been feasting forlornly upon her curves. He was reminded of one of Saint Bernard’s letters to Ermengarde, Countess of Brittany. In this, he told her, my heart is close to you, even if my body is absent. For his part, he knew that his heart had belonged to Linda for years. The problem was, alas, that their bodies remained frustratingly separated from each other.
‘Duggie? When he gets his teeth into something, he doesn’t give up.’
It was an unfortunate choice of words. This was exactly what Jasper, the monster dog, was doing to Roger’s shoe at the time. Each time Roger tried to pull it back, the dog tugged all the harder, greatly enjoying what he deemed to be a super game. The fact that Roger’s foot was still inside the shoe, made it all the more fun.
‘He’s got all sorts of ideas for this country club thing. If anybody can make a go of it, he can. He tells me he hopes to have people queuing at the doors before the end of January.’
He tried to ignore the dog and its insistent tugging and concentrate on the contents of the desk. This had finally yielded to one of the keys from the treasure chest. Considering the size of the thing, it was remarkably empty. Just a few folders with fairly modern printed labels such as Housekeeping, Petty Cash and Utilities and a handful of ledgers, the top one of which was one marked Staff.
‘Bingo.’
He held it up so she could see the label, then opened it. Each page was an employee. He almost got palpitations when he saw that the book was three-quarters full.
‘How many people did Uncle Eustace employ, for crying out loud?’
His panic-stricken cry brought Linda to his side. It took only a matter of seconds before she noticed that the vast majority of the pages contained a start and finish date. Only four were still active. He sighed with relief and thanked his lucky stars that he had had the courage to ask her to come to the manor with him. He would be lost without her.
‘I would be lost without you.’
She smiled and nodded. There then ensued one of their habitual awkward silences, until a noise at the door awakened Jasper’s guard dog instincts. He released his hold on the shoe and raced across to the door. On the way, he emitted a fearful bark, designed to put the fear of God into any intruders. That was certainly the effect it had upon Roger and Linda. They both recoiled in shock.
‘Jasper, Jasper. For God’s sake, shush.’
Roger went over to the door and, dog in one hand, turned the handle. He was confronted by an extremely large lady holding a duster and a bottle of Brasso. The dog lurched forward but then, registering the expression of hostile disapproval on her face, changed his mind. He retreated backwards into the room with all the aplomb of a centre forward, watching the opposition goalkeeper clear his line. The sudden change of direction completely wrong-footed Roger. Losing his grip on the collar, he also lost his footing on the polished parquet. He ended up flat on his back.
‘My name is Vinnicombe, Mrs Vinnicombe. We have not been formally introduced yet.’ She palmed the Brasso professionally and extended a shiny black and green hand to him, as he hauled himself up from the floor. He smiled self-consciously and took the proffered hand.
‘Very pleased to meet you, Mrs Vinnicombe. My name is Dalby, Roger Dalby. Mr McKinnon was my uncle, my mother’s brother. This is my colleague and personal assistant, Linda Reid. We were just commenting upon how clean and polished the house is. Very impressive.’