1

Rising Brook Writers

2

DISCLAIMER: To the best of our knowledge and belief all the material included in this publica-

tion is in the public domain or has been reproduced with permission and/or

source acknowledgement. We have researched the rights where possible. RBW is

a community organisation, whose aims are purely educational, and is entirely non-

profit making. If using material from this anthology for educational purposes

please be so kind as to acknowledge RBW as the source. Contributors retain the

copyright to their own work. This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

places and incidents are imaginary or are used in a fictitious way. Any resem-

blance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

SPECIAL THANKS:

SCC’s Your Library Team at Rising Brook Branch Library

E-PUBLISHED BY: Rising Brook Writers

RBW is a voluntary charitable trust. RCN: 1117227

© Rising Brook Writers 2012

The right of Rising Brook Writers to be identified as the

author of this work has been asserted

in accordance with sections 77 & 78 of the

Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

First Edition

www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk

and on FACEBOOK and on

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

3

4

Acknowledgement:

The Trustees of Rising Brook Writers are very grateful to

the staff at Rising Brook Branch Library for all their sup-

port over the years in support of the charity‟s Online Out-

reach Programme.

The Mystery of the Bluddschott Scarab is a jointly

written, farcical comedy put together by participants scat-

tered from Cannock to Meir Heath and from Great

Haywood to Highfields all joined via email and broadband

internet connection.

This tale of mayhem was built up week by week and

page by page by means of the charity‟s weekly email bul-

letin which is distributed to Over 50s writers scattered

right across the entire borough of Stafford. In addition the

weekly bulletin is produced as a free, page-turning, online

e-magazine and published on the main

www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk website, our Facebook

page, and www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters where RBW

publications have reached an international following of

over 42,000 readers to date in this experiment of e-

publishing.

If you can imagine pegging out washing the principle

is the same. As contributors email in their pieces to the

bulletin editor the jig-saw story gradually comes together

in chunks of around 500 words. Each piece being shuf-

fled forwards and backwards to achieve the best fit. This

is a literary jig-saw where the picture on the box keeps

changing. RBW writers‟ ages range between early 50s to

over 90s. New writers always welcomed.

5

6

7

Valley of the Kings, Egypt 1935

The desert heat was relentless. The sound of flies buzzing

round the chewing camels drowned out all hope of an

afternoon doze. Being left behind at camp was a punish-

ment for her own naughtiness, she knew that. Aunt was

digging her heels in: after the second nanny left in tears,

she had been told empathically that something had to be

done to curb that „tomboy‟ nature of hers, or else.

Leaving the catapult hidden underneath the pillow of

the camp bed Lucinda Bluddschott, first in line to the

Trentby Bluddschott dynasty, scuffed her field boots in the

sand and wandered aimlessly round the camp. Her eye fell

on the only occupied tent where her uncle was working

with his assistant, the thrills of the bar and pool at the ex-

pats club in town not being to his liking.

„How much longer, Uncle Bob?‟ she asked pulling back

the tent flap and allowing the midday heat to flood into the

dim interior where piles of ancient object d‟art covered

every available surface awaiting classification. The hook-

nosed assistant frowned, his own daughters would not

have been so bold as to interrupt their guardian at his

work.

„Couple of hours, sweetie,‟ the man replied pushing

horn-rimmed glasses up on to this forehead. „Bored are

you?‟

„Bored, bored, and then more bored,‟ came the reply as

looking for a seat and finding none, without warning she

swung her khaki breeches upwards onto a table covered in

„finds‟ boxes. The inevitable happened. The table, already

overburdened with the weight of boxes and sand-covered

artefacts, tumbled over spilling child and contents against

8

9

the central support post which, fortunately, swayed but

held.

Extracting his niece from the mêlée Robert Bluddschott

Earl of Trentby shook his head. „What are we goin‟ to do

with you? Lucy, you‟ll never be a lady. Here, take this

brush and go and clean yourself up before your aunt sees

you. She‟ll think you‟ve gone native if she finds you cov-

ered in dust from head to foot.‟

Doing as she was bidden, rubbing another bruise,

Lucinda found her way past the camels into the shade

afforded by a date palm lined oasis. She dipped her

hands into the warm water and as she crouched down

she realised something had fallen into the pocket of her

breeches. It was a lump of mud. She was about to throw it

into the pool when a shaft of light caused something in

the lump to sparkle. Intrigued, she dipped the mud ball

into the water and washed off thousands of years of de-

sert encrustation which had gathered in the tomb thus

protecting the artefact.

As she did so the sacred scarab of Rameses the

Great‟s nephew‟s cousin Tuttemhotepp, the High Priest of

the Temple of the God Dumilla, lay glittering in her hand.

„Shiny,‟ she grinned and slipped the priceless treasure

back into her pocket, suddenly, her aunt‟s displeasure

and the loss of the swimming excursion diminished in sig-

nificance.

Present Day ... Monday morning

„Morning 'Dolph.‟ Rose Thorne greeted her young col-

league. „You're early; it's not quarter past ten yet and it's

Colonel Bluddschott's turn to open up today.‟

10

„Morning, Rose.‟ Rudolph Andover replied as he pulled

his neck as far into his coat as it'd go and tried to get

some shelter from the rain under the golf umbrella held

by the pensioner. „I know. That's why I'm early. I want to

have a chat with the Colonel before we open up. There's a

job in the pipeline and I need a reference of some sort to

swing it my way.‟

„Best of luck then, lad. With jobs as few as they are

you‟ll need all the help you can get. Have you seen any-

thing of the Colonel? He usually parks on the Old Mill car

park and you've come right past it.‟

„His car was there; I mean you can't miss it, can you? A

Range Rover with those dog things on the doors. There

isn't another one anything like it in Trentby.‟

„That's true. He loves that car does the Colonel. More

than his missus, I'll bet.‟

„Oh I don't know, Rose, I mean, his wife's a good

woman, even if she is supposed to be TT.‟

„I think there's some kind of a story there, Dolph.

Never heard a whisper mind you, but still waters run deep

you know.‟

‟You could well be right there, Rose. But, sleeping dogs

and all that, eh?‟

Just then the lights inside the 'Mans' Best Friend' char-

ity shop came on and the figure of Colonel Bluddschott

appeared from inside and unlocked the door.

„A good morning to you Ms Thorne and to you

Randolph. Not a nice day, is it? Still we must hope that it

won't put off our clients too much. Mustn't we?‟

„Good morning Colonel, they chorused as they stepped

over the well worn coconut mat in the doorway.

„The usual, is it?‟ Rose asked, as she headed towards

the rear to fill the kettle and make the first of the day‟s

11

brews.

„No sugar in mine, Rose, please,‟ the Colonel replied.

„My wife says I'm putting on weight and cutting out sugar

is one of my dietary restrictions. Randolph! There's a de-

livery at the back door which needs bringing in and sort-

ing. Taking care of that should be the first thing, I think!‟

„Okay, Colonel, no problemo. But, before I do, could I

have a word with you in the office, please?‟

„Right you are, Randolph. Come on through when

you've hung your coat to dry.‟ So saying Colonel

Bluddschott disappeared up the stairs to the stock room

to await the arrival of Geraldine, the manageress of the

charity shop.

Monday 6.30

Sitting down to what he referred to as his „Full English

Breakfast‟, because he said it filled him up until lunch

time, of six rashers of bacon, three jumbo sausages, two

eggs, half a link of black pudding, fried bread and half a

tomato, which was only there because his sister Jean said

he should have more roughage.

Mick Grabble opened his hand and pushed a horse-

shoe shaped brooch set with red and white sparkling

stones across the table. „What do you reckon this is,

Jean? Worth anything do you think?‟

Jean reached over, picked it up, and examined it. „If the

back of it‟s gold, it‟s heavy enough, it could be worth a few

quid. We couldn‟t flog it as gold anyway, „cos there‟s no

hall-marks. Foreign I‟d think; these stones could be dia-

mond and ruby, not to my taste though. Where‟d you get

this, Mick?‟

„It was in the stuff I collected from old lady

12

Bluddschott‟s place, up at The Manor. Fastened to an old

fur coat it was. Marge didn‟t bag it for charity, it was

chucked in lose.‟

He paused to shovel in another helping of fried bread

and sausage. „That one‟s not going to the charity shops

neither. I‟ve got that contact in the fur trade I‟ll take that

too. No point in giving money away, is there?‟

„What‟s the plot for today, then?‟ Jean asked.

„Normal Monday drop-offs first, Jean. Then I‟m going

back to the Manor, „cos I told Marge Potts I‟d clear out the

rest of the stuff today. I‟ll need to take some boxes with

me this time though! Marge says the old lady had a real

load of junk that she‟s been told to get rid of.‟ He gulped

down some scalding tea.

„Then I‟ll rag some of the house clearance rubbish I‟ve

got in the shed and take it to the collectors. They owe us

for last month‟s stuff anyway. That‟ll pay for the work on

the van that needs doing. After that, it depends. May not

have time to do much more. What about you?‟

„What d‟you think about another leaflet drop? Around

the cattle market area I was thinking. We didn‟t do too

badly on the last one. Funny isn‟t it? Now it‟s gone all up-

market, with them posh flats and all, they changed its

name but it‟s still the slaughterhouse!‟

Mick thought for a few seconds. „Collection on Wednes-

day then, Jean.‟

There was another pause while he used the remainder

of a loaf to chase the last of the bacon fat around his

plate and slurped some more tea to help it down. „I don‟t

want to keep on going up that drive to the Manor, I can tell

you. All them statues and stuff half hid in the bushes; it

fair gives me the creeps. Not like when I was a nipper and

the old dear was alive. She used to tell me stories and go

13

fishin‟ with me. Now it‟s like going through a lost world, or

somethin‟.‟

Reggie awoke, his third eyelid blinked and jaw yawned

wide.

What a nice day for a paddle in the shallows, he

thought. The sun was breaking over the top of Trentby

wood and casting its warmth along the strand of pebbles

which circled around the shrub-covered island in the mid-

dle of Bluddschott Park‟s lake. Birds were singling their

praise to the dawn from the very tops of the willows. They

weren‟t daft.

Reggie blinked a serious blink, and eased the creases

out of his front legs. He sniffed a long sniff. He knew that

smell. It was geese arrival time. He loved geese time. It

made such a pleasant change from duck, sheep and deer

and the odd gun dog. The sun‟s warmth was reaching his

tail. It took a while for this to register: after all, his tail was

nine feet away from his thinking end. He shuffled more of

his body into the sunlight and basked on the shore, his

long jaw wide open with sheer joy.

„Morning, Reggie,‟ shouted a voice. The Postie on his

bicycle was a tempting delicacy, but the water was too

cold yet for a fast dash across open water, he dangled a

clawed toe into the lapping pool. No, the red-coated Postie

could wait. He‟d could live out another day. He was „a

banker‟. One to bank on in dire emergencies when starva-

tion threatened. Although, for three weeks now Reggie

had noticed something was seriously amiss and the days

of plenty were fast disappearing into memory. The old

woman had stopped visiting. He missed the rabbits and

the whole salmon she used to deposit on the bank by the

14

boat house before she‟d cycle off in top gear on a three

wheeler bone shaker. Spritely for a human, she was. But,

perhaps he had grown lazy. Perhaps, it would do him good

to start hunting for himself again.

The only eyes watching this event of life and death were

deep set in the statue of the dog-headed god Anubis

standing guard outside the Bluddschott folly, a strangely

Grecian-Romanesque styled, scaled-down replica of the

temple to Dumilla which dominated the island in the cen-

tre of the lake, once a favoured picnic spot of courting

couples until Reggie took up residence.

Plop, plop.

Ahhh ... dinner. A brace of mallard had landed over by

the reed bed. Silent and deadly Reggie, the enormous

Nile crocodile, another acquisition of Miss Lucy‟s child-

hood Egyptian travels, (well, how was she to know the

squidgy clutch of eggs she was given in the souq con-

tained baby crocodiles), slid into the still, silent waters of

Bluddschott Park‟s boating lake and totally disappeared

from view save for a few tell tale bubbles bursting on the

surface.

Monday 8.30am

Knock, knock. The tradesman‟s entrance door shook on

its hinges as Marge Potts, wiping her hands on a teacloth,

struggled to push back the huge bolts.

„Hold your water there, Michael Grabble, don‟t you

know an old biddy can‟t be all of rush this time of a morn-

ing.‟

The door screeched ajar and snagged over the flag

stone floor of the scullery.

15

„He hasn‟t got this fixed yet, then,‟ said Michael adding

his shoulder to the ancient woodwork and pushing his way

inside. „Too tight to spend a penny is that one.‟

Marge said nothing but gestured towards the teapot on

the Aga. The man nodded, it was parky outside and he

had carried the cold, dewy morning in with him on his

donkey jacket. The dampness had settled on a row of wild

Irish curls plastered against his brow and was glistening

on long dark lashes and handsome chiselled features.

Caught off guard for a second by the nearness of the

swarthy young man, Marge had a momentary flashback to

an indiscretion on the Mountains of Mourn in her early

spring with that devil-of-a-boy Jamie O‟Farrell, who bore an

uncanny resemblance to the talk-of-the-town to women-of-

a-certain-age, the said Michael Grabble. To her mind Mi-

chael Grabble was far too sure of himself and needed a

good strong willed woman to take him in hand. Had she

been thirty years younger she might have thrown her own

hat into that ring.

He was helping himself to tea as he waited for her to

gather her composure together. He knew he had this ef-

fect on women, he took their breath away, whenever he

entered a room perfectly sane women started gabbling

and pouring coffee over themselves: this marvel was

great in some circumstances, but a right nuisance in oth-

ers.

„So how many today?‟ he asked eyeing the stack of bin

bags lined up by the scullery door.‟

„Five each,‟ she replied pushing a strand of grey hair

out of her eyes. „There‟ll be loads more, but I can only do

so much at a time.‟

„I don‟t suppose the Missus does a hands turn to help

you.‟

16

Marge didn‟t reply, it wasn‟t her place to comment on

the lazy nature of the quality. Bone idleness was inborn in

the aristocracy, sure didn‟t anybody with a head on their

shoulders know that, indeed.

„I miss her,‟ she said her eyes misting over. „Good old

stick was Lady Lucy.‟

Mick picked up the first two bags and made for the

door. He, too, missed Lady Lucy, she had been a charac-

ter, alright. Not many seventy--year-olds encouraged a

schoolboy to play hooky to go fly fishing with them or

taught them how to smoke a joint without burning their

lips.

As he loaded the charity donations into the back of his

van his eye caught sight of the oak tree by the gate. A

stray tear mingled with the drizzle as he remembered sit-

ting high up there in the branches with Lady Lucy listening

to her stories as she began his education into the life and

times of the pharaohs of ancient Egypt.

The things she had seen and done in her long life were

simply amazing to a boy from the back streets of Trentby.

The things she told him had made the hair on the back of

his neck stand on end, and the things she had taught him

and shown him had broadened his horizons.

Throwing in the last bag of Lady Lucy‟s unwanted pos-

sessions, he slammed the van door and as he did so a

gust of wind rattled the leaves like a message. A shiver

ran down his spine. His sister would have said a curse

had been cast.

Monday morning 1010h

„Morning Tim.‟ Cynthia Saunders, the manageress of the

Puss in Boots charity shop, greeted her older volunteer

17

18

colleague. „You're early; it's not quarter past ten yet.‟

„Morning Cynthia.‟ Timothy Toogood replied, as he

pulled his neck as far into his coat as it'd go and tried to

get some shelter from the rain under his, too small, um-

brella. „I know. I wanted to have a chat with you before we

open up. There's a small, just part time, job in the pipeline

and I need a reference of some sort to swing it my way.‟

„Best of luck then, Tim. With part-time jobs as few as

they are you need all the help you can get. Have you seen

anything of Dylis, or Evadne? They usually park on the

New Mill car park and you've come right past it.‟

„The car was there; I mean you can't miss it, can you? A

blue and red mini that looks like a union jack and those

cat things on the doors. There isn't another one anything

like it in Trentby.‟

„That's true. She loves that car does Dylis. More than

her other half I'll bet.‟

„Oh I don't know, Cynth, I mean he's a good bloke, even

if he is TT.‟

„I think there's some kind of a story there. Never heard

a whisper mind you, but still waters run deep you know.‟

‟You could well be right there, Cynth. But, sleeping

dogs and all that eh?‟

Just then Cynthia managed to get the door to open and

switched on the lights inside the Puss in Boots cats char-

ity shop.

„Not a nice day is it, Tim? Still we must hope that it

won't put off our customers too much. Mustn't we?‟

„The usual is it?‟ Tim asked as he headed towards the

rear to fill the kettle and make the first of the day‟s brews.

„No sugar in mine, Tim please,‟ the Cynthia replied. „My

Mum says I'm putting on weight and cutting out sugar is

one of my diet things. And, Tim! There should have been a

19

delivery made at the back door that'll need bringing in

and sorting. Taking care of that should be the first thing I

think!‟

„Okay, Cynth, no problem. But, before I do that could I

have that word with you in the office, please?‟

„Right you are. Come on through when you've hung

your coat to dry.‟ So saying she disappeared up the stairs

to the stock room.

The office of the „Puss in Boots‟ manageress was a shrine

to her youth. Pink gossamer curtains festooned the win-

dow and Princess Barbie perched on the sill among her

attendants. The computer sat on a white and gold Queen

Anne style desk and the chair into which Cynthia was

squashed was of rosy translucent plastic. She swivelled

round at Tim‟s knock.

„Come in,‟ she trilled, for she liked to start the day on a

positive note, whatever the weather.

Tim entered and carefully put down her special cup and

saucer.

„Thank you,‟ she said. „Now you wanted a word?‟

„Yes, I don‟t think…‟ he began

Cynthia raised her cup and took a sip. „Ahh,‟ she

breathed. Wonderful. What was it, Tim?‟

„Well,‟ he began again. „It‟s not… it‟s not really…

„Not really what?‟

„Not really working out here for me.‟

She replaced her cup, regarded him. For goodness

sake what did he expect at his time of life? A proper job?

He must be all of 50 and his qualifications – well! Ferret-

ing among old bones and things – what call was there for

that? Even if you were entitled to call yourself „Doctor‟.

20

Not that he ever did, but word was he‟d written a very

good book on the Ancient Egyptians which meant he

could if he wanted to. He wasn‟t allowed to cure anyone

though so what was the point? You can be extremely

clever without being in the least useful, reflected Cynthia

and at the same time, have no qualifications at all like

herself and be very useful indeed. After all, who had

clothed the man but the shop she ran so successfully? He

stood before her, skinny as a match in the fraying shirt

stuffed into corduroys with matching plastic belt. His hair

was dragged into a long greasy queue – it had obviously

been imprisoned in the 80s and never released since.

What hope did he have of any job? If it weren‟t for the

likes of herself…

„You‟re happy with us aren‟t you?‟ she asked in gentle

tones.

„Oh yes, very happy. No it‟s not anybody here. Not ex-

actly here.‟

„What then?‟ She was becoming rather interested.

„It‟s the cats.‟

Cynthia groped for understanding. „The knitted ones?

Are you allergic to wool?‟

„No. The real ones.‟

„We don‟t have any real ones. Tim, would you like to sit

down?‟

There was only the floor available, but Tim sat.

„I just can‟t stand the things.‟

„But you love cats, Tim. You‟ve got lots of cats at home.

„Yes, 17 of the things. They just keep coming. Producing

more. They mess all over the garden, they stink the house

out, and they kill things. Birds, little baby mice. They keep

bringing them in. I hate them!‟ Tim dropped his face into

his hands and his shoulders started to shake.

21

„So why do you keep feeding them?‟

„Because they‟d starve otherwise. I thought if the shel-

ter had more places they‟d be able to take them, so that‟s

why I came to help here. I thought I‟d be able to make a

difference. But I can‟t.‟

Monday 10.00 British Municipal Museum, London

Maxie watched the children clattering up the stairs to the

Egyptian room and curled his lip. Striped blazers, ties -

spawn of the grabbers of this world, heading for careers in

banking, law, politics, everything that kept the likes of

Maxie down.

„Come along please,‟ barked Miss Spur, „You‟re on the

staff of the British Municipal Museum now, stand up

straight.‟ She handed him a box of exhibits. „Don‟t lag,‟

she said, marching after the children. He scowled at her

back but followed. His mam had told him he‟d be out on

his ear if he messed up this time. „You‟re damn lucky to

get another chance,‟ she‟d said. „And this is a very good

job. Give you a bit of expertise.‟

„Expertise!‟ his gran had cackled. „That‟ll be the day!‟

Maxie‟s scowl deepened, but then it softened into almost

a grin. So, he wasn‟t an expert? Where was her pearl hat

pin then? Her inheritance, as she used to call it before

Maxie found that fence on the internet who could shift

anything and no questions asked. Those back to work

courses taught you more computer skills than they real-

ised.

By now they had all reached Miss Spur‟s dead thing of

the week. Max was getting better with the mummies – no

nightmares for at least a fortnight – but he hadn‟t seen

22

this one before. It was gross. Parched eye sockets, no

nose, thin lips drawn back over huge yellow teeth. And the

wrappings – some rat had obviously been at those.

„This is Tutemhotepp,‟ Miss Spur was saying. „Cousin of

Rameses the Great‟s nephew‟s cousin and High Priest of

the Temple of Dumilla. We call him the Bluddschott

mummy.‟

Bloodshot? thought Maxie. Where‟s the blood? The

thing was made of leather.

The spawn were fascinated. „Why is it called the blood-

shot mummy?‟ piped up one of them.

„Because it was found by the Earl of Bluddschott,‟ said

Miss Spur. „Of Trentby Manor in Staffordshire.‟

„There should be things buried with it. Where are they?‟

demanded another.

„Somebody got there first,‟ explained Miss Spur. A lot of

the important things had been stolen. Look, this is all the

Earl could find.‟

That was the cue for Maxie to open the display box. The

spawn crowded round.

„Where‟s the Heart Scarab?‟ asked one of them accus-

ingly. „It should be over the heart to ensure entry into the

Afterlife. But it‟s obviously not on the mummy, and if it‟s

not in the box either, where is it?

Snotty little know all, thought Maxie.

„It‟s missing,‟ said Miss Spur. „It must have been one of

the things stolen. We think it looked like this. Typical for

the status of such a person.‟ She fished out the picture of

something in greens and blues held together by gold. It

had a big orange lump in the middle. „This is a photo of

the painting on the tomb. Look,‟ she said, indicating the

lid. „There it is, and the inscription underneath would have

been on the back of it.‟

23

„Is it valuable?‟ asked the class idiot.

„Yes, dear,‟ said Miss Spur. „Not the stones themselves,

they are semi precious, lapis lazuli, turquoise and carnel-

ian. But its provenance, that means where it came from,

makes it very valuable. The museum would pay a great

deal to recover that scarab.‟

„How much?‟ asked a scrawny one obviously destined

for banking. „A million pounds?‟

„Something like that,‟ said Miss Spur.

A niggling at the back of Maxie‟s mind finally jumped

into clarity.

Trentby – he knew it! It was where his Gran‟s mad sister

lived. She used to come down to see them, bringing pre-

sents of hideous knitted cardigans he‟d been forced to

wear to school. „You should be grateful,‟ his mam had

said. „I am.‟

Grateful! As if school wasn‟t bad enough. „Maxie!‟ a kid

had scoffed on the first day. „He should be called Minnie.‟

And so it had been, until the day he was officially expelled.

Still it had made him a good fighter in spite of his size.

But Trentby… yes that was where she‟d hung out. And

still did – they‟d had a Christmas card. Where the finder

of this lot hung out too. And who could say what had gone

missing before this Bluddschott geezer arrived?

Everyone knew aristocrats are mad, marrying their

cousins and all that. Who was to say he hadn‟t taken a

shine to the scarab and hung it on his apple tree to add a

bit of winter colour? A million pounds?

Surely it was worth a trip?

Maxie gave no sign that his mind was gathering speed

like a plane about to launch. He absentmindedly took the

photo from Miss Spur and kept it in his hand. He‟d wear

the interview suit his mam bought him, his black shirt, the

24

dog collar made from a slice of plastic washup bottle that

turned him into everybody‟s ideal hitchhiker and he‟d hit

the road on his next day off which was – oh great – it was

tomorrow! He‟d have to park up with the old biddy, Eva…

Evan… Evadne! That‟s what she was called, Great-Aunt

Evadne, but he‟d have a thorough look round too. Explore

this Manor place. That was where Maxie‟s expertise lay. In

exploring. If the scarab was there, Maxie would find it.

What Miss Spur had not mentioned, and what Maxie did

not know, was that the Bluddschott mummy had been do-

nated to the museum nearly eighty years ago and all at-

tempts to trace the missing artefacts, although at first fu-

riously pursued, had long been abandoned.

Tuesday Morning 9.00am Second Collection

Mick‟s white van bumped, rather more slowly than usual,

over the uneven driveway to the rear of the Manor, the

wipers failing to make more than a minor impression on

the torrential rain pouring down the wind screen.

„Flaming Hallelujah chorus‟, muttered Mick to himself,

then he chuckled as he remembered that it was Lady

Lucinda who‟d taught him to swear in proper English.

„What was it she told me? “There‟s no excuse for vulgarity

dear boy. All that shows is a lack of forethought. One may

have a good swear in proper English and not be vulgar” I‟ll

miss Lady Lucy; the old dear was a real toff, one of the

best.‟

He was lucky, the driveways and garages were empty,

which allowed him to pull up in shelter and get ready to

clear the rest of Lady Lucy's things away.

Knowing his way around the house as well as he did,

25

26

he knew of all the service corridors, it was easy to get into

the rooms recently used by Lady Lucy where all the

'clutter', as the current Lady Bluddschott called it, was be-

ing sorted out.

Boxes of shoes, handbags and scarves, bags of under-

clothes, coats and dresses were all bundled up and

loaded into the van.

„These rooms are to be cleared, I don't care what you

do with the stuff, but nothing is to be left,‟ was the in-

struction from 'Her Ladyship', as Marge Potts called her. „I

don't want a single thing left in here when the decorators

arrive.‟

Mick noticed 'Her Ladyship' as she walked out of the

room with the key to Lady Lucy's safe and a jewellery box

clutched firmly in her hands. She was a looker all right.

„Hey, Marge! Do you think she means I can have the

four poster bed as well?‟ Mick jokingly asked.

„Don't be daft, Mick,‟ Marge replied. „That's fastened in

place,‟ she chuckled at the thought, „and anyway you'd

never get in the van!‟

Tuesday morning 11.00

Maxie lurched out of the car with a loud internal prayer of

thanks.

„Goodbye Reverend,‟ yelled his chauffeuse as she tore

away in a cloud of exhaust fumes. He waved weakly and

then staggered into a blessedly handy coffee shop.

Women of her age shouldn‟t be allowed to drive. Not like

that. Not in a Morris Minor. And they certainly shouldn‟t

be allowed to pick up hitch hikers. She‟d had the hood

down all the way and the wind had gone straight through

his head and taken his brains and all the rest of his in-

27

nards with it.

„White coffee please,‟ he managed to get out to the girl

who had sidled up to him, licking her pencil. When it arrived

he just breathed it in until his face thawed sufficiently to

attempt a gulp. And then – oh it was fantastic! He could

feel it coursing down like Scotch, a pure gold glow right

down his throat, his chest, until it flared into his stomach.

Gradually his limbs relaxed, his breathing slowed, his

heart resumed its normal beat. He looked around. He was

in a pedestrianised street with a clock at the end. They‟d

actually got up from London in two hours flat!

No wonder he‟d felt turned inside out. He rummaged in

his rucksack for the old biddy‟s Christmas card with her

address on it. His gran never threw them away. Kept them

stashed in her bottom drawer along with those from old

Uncle Ernie who‟d run away with the grocer‟s wife. 7 Gas-

ton Place – yes he‟d remembered correctly. Now he just

needed to find out where it was, where this Bluddschott

Manor was, and the relevant bus timetables.

„Could you point me to the library please?‟ he asked the

sidling girl.

One hour later, armed with the appropriate computer

print outs, Maxie knocked on the door of a small terraced

house.

It would be nice to say his Great Aunt Evadne recog-

nised him at once and clasped him to her bosom with

cries of joy, but in fact she took the cigarette out of her

mouth, said, „I‟ve worked out exactly what I can spend on

charity this year, and I‟ve spent it,‟ replaced the fag and

began to close the door.

„No,‟ said Maxie, sticking his foot firmly forward. „I‟m

Maxie. Don‟t you remember? You used to knit me such

lovely cardigans.‟

28

She peered over her specs, and slowly light seemed to

dawn. „You are, aren‟t you?‟ she said, and closed her bony

arms round him in a hug.

„Come in, come in,‟ she cried, and led the way into a

room where a small fire burned in an iron grate. Tar of

ages yellowed the walls and ceiling and three large cats

stared at Maxie from the sofa. More cats, made of wool

this time, crowded a dark sideboard, adorned windowsills

and filled an armchair. Great Aunt Evadne cleared the

chair and motioned Maxie into it.

„They raise such a lot of money for the refuge,‟ she said.

Maxie looked puzzled. „The cat refuge,‟ she said. But the

shop‟s full at the moment. And now dear, I‟ll make you a

cup of tea and you can tell me why you‟re wearing that ri-

diculous get up. ‟

Tuesday Morning: The Solicitor calleth. 11.00am

As he stood under the protection of Bluddschott Manor‟s

porch, Thomas Green, the junior solicitor in the firm, real-

ised that: „Thomas; you're to handle winding up the es-

tate of the late Lady Lucinda Bluddschott. The probate

work will be good experience for you. Go up to the Manor

and take a quick inventory of her personal effects and

things. Shouldn't take more than a couple of days. If you

find anything of great value, or if you aren't sure of the

value of anything, call here and we'll arrange a special

pick-up, or whatever. Okay?‟

To which Thomas had answered, „Yes, grandfather,‟

these were far from the best instructions he'd ever been

given and that 'a couple of days' was more like two weeks,

maybe two months, too short. Still, faint heart never won

29

fair fees, as his grandfather, the head of the family firm,

often had told him.

He pounded with the doorknocker again. The door

creaked open, he thought it sounded like a sound effect

from a horror film, and an elderly woman stuck her head

around it.

„What do you want bangin' on this door like that?‟ She

glared as she snapped at him. „Don't you know nothin'?

Go round the side like all proper callers does, and what-

ever it is you're sellin' we don't want none!‟ The door

slammed shut and the noise of the key turning had that

sound of finality.

Thomas looked at the door again. The door, which had

stood there through four centuries, two sieges and two

world wars and innumerable parties, sneered blankly,

blackly, back and won.

Admitting defeat, Thomas went around to the side until

he found a door marked 'Tradesman‟s Entrance' and

knocked on that.

The same face appeared and inquisitorially asked.

„Who are you and what do you want?‟

„I'm Thomas Green, the solicitor who‟s handling the pro-

bate on the estate of the late Lady Lucinda,‟ which proved

to be the magic password. In a warm room, off the large,

freezing cold, kitchen, he accepted the tea and cake of-

fered by, „Mrs Potts, but call me Marge‟, and was intro-

duced to, Mick Grabble, the house clearance man, a

handsome, well built, man in his thirties, who was drink-

ing tea by the gallon and eating cake as if it'd gone out of

fashion.

„Nothing much here for you, Mr Green,‟ Mick informed

him. „Lady Lucy got rid of the house years ago. She said

something about making it into a company of some sort

30

so that it wouldn't get swallowed up in death duties.

There's only a few old clothes, but they've mainly gone to

the charity shops, and some jewellery.‟

„You knew the lady then, Mr Grabble?‟

„A few years ago, Mr Green, a few years ago. I suppose,

in a way, Lady Lucy was more a teacher than a toff. She

certainly kept my sister and me on the straight and nar-

row. She's a sad loss to me, still, must keep to business.

Where's your sidekick then?‟

„Side kick? What do you mean, side kick? I'm afraid I

don't follow you, Mr Grabble.‟

„You don't mean you've been sent here on your own,

do you? You need someone with an idea of the value of

things.‟ He shook his head in sorrow at the naïvety of the

other man. „Things that you can value because they were

hers anyway. Not the house and grounds nor the cars,

they're owned by the firm I've told you about. Dunno about

the paintings and furniture, but I'll bet they are as well.

Lady L rarely missed a trick there.‟ He turned and asked,

„Do you know Marge?‟

„Nothin' to do with me, Mick. I does like I'm told. Like

I'm tellin' you to get yourself shifted and move all that

stuff. Her Ladyship was very particular that she wanted it

all gone by tomorrow. The decorators are coming in then

and Her Ladyship wants those rooms redone. Now move

yourself and do it or you'll get no more tea and cakes from

me, my lad!‟

„Okay, Marge, on me way now‟, Mick replied as he went

out of the door. „Nice to meet you Mr Green, and if you

want any houses cleared, or stuff moved, give me a call if

you would. Always happy to oblige.‟

Thomas turned to Marge. „Is there anything left here of

Lady Lucinda‟s effects, Mrs Potts?‟

31

„Dunno really. There's some stuff in the safe upstairs I

believe. Her Ladyship has the key for that, and there's an

old jewellery box in Lady Lucy‟s dressing room. Lady Lucy

had a list done for the insurance some time ago, that's

probably the best thing. Her Ladyship's probably got that.‟

„You don't sound too happy, Mrs Potts.‟

„I'm not young man! As soon as this is all done and

dusted, I'm off out of here. My old man and me‟s goin' to

retire somewhere nice. I'll ask me cousin, Vera at Trentby

Escort Agency where's the best place to go. With her so-

cial connections she's bound to know that!‟

Daniel „La Do‟ Smithers hummed as he minced his way

along Trentby High Street in rather high heels. The bell

above the door of „Man‟s Best Friend‟ charity shop rang

out brightly as he entered. Rose Thorne looked up quickly

from the copy of Lolita she was reading beneath the shop

counter, and hastily hid it amongst the many other dog-

eared, but less absorbing titles on the bookshelf behind

her. But she made a mental note of its location, for future

reference. There it sat, between „Fly fishing‟ by J R Bartley

and „Eating out of Doors‟ by Alf Rescoe.

She was slightly irritated by the interruption, but as he

was a good customer, she greeted him fairly warmly.

„Hello there, Dan. And to what do we owe this pleas-

ure?‟

„Hmm... It may be a pleasure for you, dearie, but frankly

speaking, that sort of thing‟s not my cup of tea at all. Now

that nice young Master Andover… well, need I say more?‟

„I‟m afraid he‟s busy, so you‟ll have to make do with

me,‟ she added, tartly.

„Ah well,‟ Danny sighed, in his high-pitched voice.

32

„Beggars can‟t be choosers. I need something a bit spe-

cial for the Players‟ Ball tomorrow night.

„Are you in luck!‟ exclaimed Rose.

„I don‟t know. Am I?‟

„We‟ve just had a delivery from Bluddschott Hall. The

old Colonel‟s getting shut of the dowager‟s wardrobe. And

she was a snazzy dresser, I can tell you! Oh yes. Some

pretty fancy stuff amongst that lot. And I‟ve only just fin-

ished putting it out on the rail over there. Why don‟t you

take a look?‟

„Don‟t mind if I do‟, Danny responded, enthusiastically.

He began sifting through the said rack, crammed tight

with coat hangers and various garments, and occasionally

took one out for a closer look.

„Wow! There‟s tons of stuff here which might do for the

Am Dram group. I‟ll come back when I‟ve got more time, in

a day or two for a closer look.‟

„Don‟t leave it too long,‟ cautioned Rose. „Things of that

quality don‟t turn up every day. And so reasonable too!

There are sure to be plenty of folk out there who‟ll give

them a good home, especially in times of recession. I

mean, just look at some of those labels! Vivian Eastwood,

Coochi, Lada, Dolce and Havana, Georgio Legani; all the

big names. And even vintage stuff by Mary Font and

Flanel. Top designers all. And shoes too, to complement

any outfit. I tell you, if it wasn‟t against the shop rules, I

would have had first pick of them.‟

She hoped he wouldn‟t notice the carrier bag with her

name scrawled in black felt tip pen, containing the Laura

Pashley flower-sprigged dress and the pair of patent

leather shoes bearing the name of Jimmy Clue on the bot-

tom shelf of the counter.

„Glad I came in now!‟ Danny beamed. „Was thinking of

33

trying „Puss in Boots‟, to see if they‟d got anything suit-

able, but…‟ his voice tailed off

„Oh heavens!‟ Rose interrupted. „You can‟t be serious!

They haven‟t got anything like this. We‟re in a totally differ-

ent league from them when it comes to exclusivity and

value! Ours is a much better class of merchandise.‟

„Sorry‟, Danny muttered, sheepishly. „OK if I try these

on?‟

„Be my guest.‟ Rose Thorne indicated the changing

rooms; Danny took a generous armful of items and

headed in that direction. Whilst his back was turned, she

flipped the carrier bag over, so that the incriminating evi-

dence was not visible.

Danny „La Doo‟ reappeared minutes later, and plonked

several of them down on the counter. Amongst them was

a very nice sable coat, which, though it had clearly been

in the dowager‟s possession for many years, screamed

quality. Little did he know that the right hand pocket had a

tiny tear in it, and that consequently, an item of great

archaeological significance and historical value had

slipped unnoticed into the lining.

„What‟s the damage?‟ he asked

Mrs Ethel „La Do‟ Smithers poured out a steaming cup of

tea and pushed it across the table towards her son. She

was a cheery, homely soul, with a round face and greying

hair, which steadfastly refused to stay in the loose bun

she had worn for the past fifty-odd years, and who doted

on her only child.

„How are you today, Doody?‟ she asked him, solicitously.

„Fine, thanks, but oh mummy, I wish you wouldn‟t call

me that! I‟m almost forty-three, after all.‟

34

„I know that, sweetie. But to me, you‟ll always be my lit-

tle Doody.‟

„You could do me a favour, if you‟re going into town to-

day. Can you drop off that old fur coat at the charity shop?

I‟ll never wear it again, and can‟t see it being much use

for the gang. (He was referring to his friends in the Ama-

teur Dramatic Society.) If it‟s no trouble, that is.‟

„No trouble at all. Consider it done,‟ his loving mater re-

plied.

The bag containing the coat was quite heavy, and the

„Man‟s Best Friend‟ charity shop was at the opposite end

of Trentby High Street from the bus stop, where Ethel

alighted. She wasn‟t about to lug it round for long. Not

with her rheumatics. Much as she adored Doody. No way!

And besides, it was pouring down.

Thus it was that she walked into the „Puss in Boots‟

shop, and proffered the unwanted item, along with its pre-

cious, secret stowaway, to Ms. Cynthia Saunders, proprie-

tor of said small business. A large, white Persian cat sat

on a cushion on a chair in the corner, and eyed her sleep-

ily, yawning in a disinterested way.

„My, that‟s a nice coat, Mrs Smithers. Funny, I hadn‟t

got you down as a real sable type; more a faux fur lady, I‟d

have said‟. She twiddled her pearls, pointedly.

„No. It‟s not mine. It belongs to our Danny. At least, it

did, for forty-eight hours, or so. But he doesn‟t need it any-

more, and being the sweetheart that he is, thought some-

one else might be glad of it.‟

„I see,‟ said Cynthia, peering at Ethel over the top of her

pink spectacles, which perfectly matched her cerise twin-

set. „Course, it‟s a bit out of fashion these days, and not

exactly „de rigueur‟ thanks to those animal libbers. Natu-

rally, I love animals as much as the next man, or should I

35

say, woman?‟ she giggled. „But really! They go too far.‟

„Don‟t you want it then?‟ Ethel asked brusquely.

„Oh no. I didn‟t mean that. It‟s a good, warm coat for

someone without such sensitivities. I‟m sure someone will

appreciate it. Those people in the local hostel maybe. By

the way, your Danny is into his Amateur Dramatics, isn‟t

he? Perhaps you‟d pass on a message? We‟ve just had a

big delivery from Bluddschott Hall. Lady Lucinda‟s stuff.

Beautiful, it is. I‟m sure he and his mates could use some

of it in their productions.‟

Tuesday morning

„Don‟t take on so old bean. What can‟t be cured must be

endured, don‟t y‟ know. Soldiers‟ wives, eh what?‟ said

Lionel his hand casually following the contours of a well

firm thigh amply displayed through the stretched jodhpurs

of his companion in the stable‟s hay stack.

„That‟s just it Lionel, it is soldiers‟ wives. Or at least this

soldier‟s wife.‟

„Now, now, hunny-bunny. She‟s off to London for the

season in a week or two, once the estate‟s sorted. She‟ll

be goown for weeeks and weeeeks.‟ Lionel‟s vowels got

longer and longer as his fingers delved into recesses of

silk and lace fancies and two stuffed hamster cheeks

flamed with torrid intent.

„Not now Lionel!‟ came the sharp retort as Geraldine

struggled to sit upright, strands of hay attached to her

fiery tresses. „Why can‟t you just tell her?‟

„Tell her,‟ stuttered the Colonel his ardour for his num-

ber one mistress‟s charms rapidly quelling. „Tell her what?

My Sweetness.‟

„Tell the woman you want a divorce,‟ grumbled Gerald-

36

ine allowing a gaping button to display a hint of pink lace,

only inches away from the dead-mouse moustache that

dwelled beneath retired Colonel Bluddschott‟s ripe-veined

nose.

„You know how it is, Sweetness,‟ he whispered. „It‟s

the ...‟

„It‟s the money. Always the money. What do I care about

money?‟

Lionel winced. Money was such an ugly word. His

Sweetness might protest she didn‟t care about the

wretched stuff, but my goodness she‟d care right enough

once there wasn‟t any. The estate was hopelessly in-

debted to the trust fund set up by Annabelle‟s late father

the northern sausage millionaire Barry Cumberbatch ‘We

put the Cumber into Batches of Cumberland Bangers’.

How could he explain to Geraldine, she of the divine

thighs and tantalising suspenders, that he was borassic

lint, hadn‟t got a penny to his name since Aunt Lucy had

snuffed it and taken his monthly allowance with her to the

stony mausoleum in the church yard. An army pension

didn‟t go far to keep a fellow in brandy and cigars after all,

not to mention his tab at Denton‟s the bookies in the High

Street, or his other on-going extra-martial relationship with

Cynthia ... she of the pink wellingtons, a real puss-in-

boots ... strewth what a pickle ...

Tuesday

Annabelle, Countess of Trentby, was busy spreading her

bad mood when Thomas Green was ushered into the

study she had inherited from her predecessor. The moder-

ate sized room; moderate sized, that is, when compared

37

38

to the barrack block rooms in the rest of the house, had a

battered roll top desk against one wall, a coffee table

slightly off centre and old, but comfortable, arm chairs

scattered around it. The table and chairs had become the

repositories of papers, shoeboxes, books, odd items of

clothing, and mysterious bundles.

„About time too,‟ was her opening remark. „You should

have been here days ago. All this legal clutter should have

been cleared away after the funeral, not left until now!‟

She waved a bunch of papers at him. „I‟ve been through

this list and photograph catalogue a dozen times and

there are some items that I can‟t account for. There‟s a

diamond and ruby brooch and an Egyptian scarab missing

from her jewellery. A sable fur coat, probably an old one,

that seems to have disappeared, and two hundred an-

tique gold coins that seem to have evaporated.‟

„Do you think they‟ve been stolen your Grace?‟ Tho-

mas asked.

„More likely squirreled away somewhere, or given away

to some worthy cause or other. The old besom was good

at that.‟

Thomas noted in passing that there seemed to have

been some friction within the Bluddschott family. That

was no concern of his, but his mother and sisters would

certainly like to know, and it promised a lively dinner table

that evening.

„What sort of value are we talking about, your Grace?

If the police have to get involved then they‟ll also need to

know the value. If they have been properly disposed of

then we need to remove them from the estate valuation.

Are we talking a few pounds or thousands of pounds?‟

„How am I supposed to know that, you silly man!‟ Was

her blistering rejoinder. „You‟re the one with the experts

39

on hand. All I know is that there seems to be some items

and gold coins that have evaporated. Here‟s the list and

photos. You check it, that‟s what you getting over-paid for!‟

She thrust the documents and photographs at him.

Taking the papers Thomas thought rapidly, then told

the irate woman „The Scarab would be the province of Dr.

Toogood; he‟s the only Egyptologist in Trentby, as for the

fur coat I‟ll ask Mr Grabble. The gold coins will have to be

valued by a specialist auction house. The first two will

take about an hour each; the coins will take much longer,

your Grace.‟

Randolph Andover wasn‟t what one would usually expect

to find serving behind the counter as a volunteer in a

charity shop, Geraldine had thought on Randolph‟s first

day a few weeks ago.

But, security tagged ankle bracelet or not, Randolph

had been a godsend to Man‟s Best Friend. His computer

skills were nothing short of genius. Bless his cotton socks,

he had reformed the wretched spreadsheets within a

twinkling of an eye and the daily returns sheets were a

pleasure of simplicity: even Rose, she of the keyboard

skills of a snail on tranquilizers, couldn‟t mess them up.

If one looked passed the neck tattoo and the enormous

black and steel earlobe extenders then Randolph was one

of life‟s gentlemen. Nothing was too much trouble for him:

he had a kind and gentle manner with the older clientele,

and was adored by kiddies, who were fascinated by the

pictures of Chinese dragons and serpents covering his

arms from wrist to shoulder.

How the youngster had wandered from the path of

righteousness on to the wrong side of the local magis-

40

trates bench was a mystery to Geraldine. His mother,

Carol, was such a lovely woman, and a pillar of the WI. But

wandered he had, well his fingers had anyway, even if his

size twelve trainers had never left his bedroom. Boys will

be boys, she thought when he turned up accompanied by

a parole officer. Geraldine had read through his applica-

tion to join their happy band and decided to take him un-

der her wing. As she watched him that morning making

short shift of heaving a van load of collection bags into

the sorting room, his biceps rippling, she grinned. Ah yes,

that was the other reason she had set him on.

„Randolph, if you could make a start with the unpacking

I‟ll be in shortly to start pricing up,‟ she said.

„No probs,‟ came the mumbled reply. Randolph was

very shy around members of the fair sex. Unless, of

course, they were online. Online Randolph had various

personae including Victor the Vulongarian, a warrior king

of the Vulongars of the planet Vulongaria, who had a

harem of gigantic proportions. It was because of develop-

ing this manga resembling harem that the said Victor, i.e.

Randolph, had started online gambling, which had led to

online debts, and then online frauds, to cover the online

debts resulting from the online gambling, which started

out to cover his ever increasing purchases of flamboyant

online girl characters with which to grace the harem of

Victor the Vulongarian. It was only after the trial that he

learned to his dismay that many of the gorgeous manga

online lovelies he had purchased were being produced by

Barry Norman-Stanley, the four-eyed geek who nobody

used to speak to at Trentby High School. Stinky Barry, still

as acne covered as pavement pizza, was now driving

round in a brand new beamer which stood out like a sore

thumb in Pear Tree Avenue, where most of the other vehi-

41

cles had different coloured doors, or bonnets, and which

were supported on piles of house bricks.

Had Randolph known the expensive exotic bimbos

online were springing from the fertile imagination of five-

foot-two Barry Norman-Stanley then things might have

been very different. Barry had always been terrified of

Randolph at school. Randolph had been giving this some

thought of late, and decided it was time to strike up an

alliance with said manga doodler. A new beamer was a

powerful incentive to an online loner who had recently

acquired a criminal record. After all hadn‟t his parole offi-

cer told him he needed to get out more.

Taking his leave of Lady Bluddschott, Thomas Green went

straight to Puss-in-Boots. He was lucky; the man he was

looking for was in the back, sorting stock.

„Scarab. 14th century BC. Steatite. No provenance.

Hmm... not worth much Mr Green. Old doesn‟t mean valu-

able you know,‟ the skeletal scarecrow told him.

Thomas was very disappointed and said so.

„Maybe a few hundred in the right auction,‟ Toogood

replied. „Say fifty pounds as a book figure? If it had any

kind of provenance it could go to a few thousand, but I

wouldn‟t bet on it. If it‟s a forgery, and there are lots

about, you‟re looking at change from a pound. Sorry, but

without the real thing in my hand I can‟t tell you much.‟

He looked at the photos again. „There‟s something

odd about this though. The photo‟s not very good but the

hieroglyphs are unusual. They aren‟t the usual words from

the Book of the Dead. Look here!‟ He pointed to a symbol

that looked like two jagged lines. „They shouldn‟t be there.

The wording looks to say, „The Heart of the Blacklands‟,

42

that‟s a sort of Ministry of Agriculture thing. I‟ll have to

look it up but it seems that this scarab could be unique. If

you can get it I‟ll be able to give you a better opinion.‟

Mick Grabble, the Ragman, sauntered down Trentby High

Street, pausing briefly to check himself out in the plate

glass window of the florists. He ran his hand through his

thick, black, curly locks, lightly gelled, and pulled up the

collar of his bomber jacket, assuming his John Travolta

pose.

This was the same jacket that Iris, a volunteer in the

Puss in Boots shop had found for him amongst some

good quality items recently donated, and which he knew

she liked. He also knew that she had a thing about the

star of „Grease‟, so hopefully, he would be onto a good

thing.

It was five to six, and the shop closed at six. He stuck

his head round the shop door. Iris was busy with a cus-

tomer, but looked up, blushing. He gave her a cheeky

wink, and parked himself on the chair in the corner, where

Cynthia‟s large Persian tom had previously been sitting,

idly surveying the world from the comfort of his cushion.

Cynthia had taken him with her when she finished her

shift. Mick waited somewhat impatiently, until she had

rung the item through the till and slipped it into a carrier.

„Thank you, Mrs Brown. Have a nice evening‟.

„Looks like you will!‟ the woman responded, glancing at

Mick‟s handsome, chiselled features, his startlingly blue

eyes and the slight hint of designer stubble on his chin, as

she exited

Iris swivelled the „Open‟ sign round and pulled down the

blind on the door. Before she turned round, Mick‟s strong

43

44

arms were round her waist, and he spun her towards him.

„I must be the envy of every woman in Trentby!‟ she

thought to herself, contentedly.

Meanwhile at the other end of the High Street, Daphne

and Deirdre Drinkwater were identical twins, who gave a

few hours a week to help out at the „Man‟s Best Friend‟

shop. Physically, they were alike in every way, and even

dressed the same; a fact which caused considerable con-

fusion at times. But though they were so similar in ap-

pearance, there was a fierce rivalry between the two

young women, and both had hopeless crushes on Mick

Grabble, the handsome and eligible delivery driver.

Never one to turn down any attention from the fair sex,

Mick was on good terms with both young women, and it

has to be admitted, with most of the female population of

Trentby, and saw quite a lot of all of them. But each twin

was under the impression that she and she alone had his

heart, and was blissfully unaware that her sister imagined

the same.

„If Deidre knew about me and Mick, she‟d be so jeal-

ous! It‟s great he chose me.‟ Daphne smiled to herself.

„My poor little sister!‟ thought Daphne. „She doesn‟t

know what she‟s missing! I‟m glad he picked the right one

of us.‟

Mick had sworn them to secrecy, and this added a cer-

tain frisson to their relationship

Oh yes, he was a very exciting man.

Tuesday. 1700h

45

Thomas returned to the Puss-in-Boots charity shop shortly

before it closed.

„I saw a fur coat when I was in here last,‟ he said to

the overweight, bottle blonde woman behind the counter.

She was dressed, mainly, in different shades of pink,

which didn't suit her, and like a teenager, which definitely

didn't suit her.

„A dark colour it was, sable I think my sisters would call

it.‟

„Oh, they are lucky girls to have a thoughtful brother

like you,‟ she replied batting her, obviously fake, eye-

lashes at him. „We've just had it in. The last owner de-

cided that it wasn't what they wanted. I'm afraid it's a bit

expensive though, for a faux fur that is, £20.00 is the

price our valuer put on the tag.

„I'm afraid I didn't leave the office with more than a

few pounds on me, but, if you'll take a cheque there‟s not

too much problem there.‟

„I don't know you, and it is against the shop policy to

take cheques from unknown customers,‟ she replied. Ob-

viously torn between wanting to make the sale and shop

policy. „£20.00 is quite a lot of money you know. I know

you came in earlier, to see Tim Toogood about something,

and he told me you're a solicitor. What was it he said,

Green and something, I think, from by the Minster.‟

„That's right. I'm Thomas Green, the junior in the firm,‟

Tom said as he handed her his business card.

„Solicitor! Hmm. Definitely a reputable person then.‟

„Not according to some people.‟ The bitterness in his

voice showed he knew exactly what some people,

thought. „They say we're an overpaid bunch of money

grabbing... ermm... well let's just leave it at that shall we.‟

46

„Surely not! Not a nice person like you Mr Green. I'm

sure that you do a very good job for your customers. I'm

Cynthia, Cynthia Saunders that is,‟ the eyelashes went

into overdrive.

„I can't see any problem with a cheque from you...

Thomas. Are you … sure … I can't … help … you choose

something else for your sister? We've some very nice de-

signer label clothes that have just come in. I'd buy them

myself if the policy wasn't strictly against it.‟

Tom thought, 'not that that'd stop you if they were any-

where near your size', but, tactfully, said nothing as he

rapidly wrote out the cheque while Cynthia wrapped the

coat in some brown paper and put it in a local supermar-

ket carrier bag. He was glad to get out of the shop as he

thought she'd be very ready to try to seduce him, given

the opportunity, or something worse and he didn‟t fancy

being ravished.

Navigating the house door whilst managing an overfilled

carrier bag and a briefcase was a bit tricky and the door

banged shut behind him. His sisters, Barbara and Megan,

both stuck their heads out of the rooms they were in to

see who was, as their father put it, wrecking the house.

„Hi Babs, Hi Meg. Are you ready for the family dinner

party then?‟

Sour faces were pulled in answer.

„Obviously overjoyed at the prospect I can see. A nice

night with the relatives at the behest of Grandpa, who

sees it as a bonding exercise for the firm.‟

„Where does he get his ideas from,‟ asked Babs. „That

sort of thing's for manufacturing and retail. We're solici-

tors for heaven sake! Bonding and team ukkk isn't for us.‟

47

„Too true, Babs, but he is the head of the firm and if

he says we do it, then we do it, full stop.‟ Tom replied.

„Besides it'll be a good to have a natter to Auntie Vi. She's

always good for a laugh.‟

„I suppose so, Tom.‟

„I hope so, Babs. Anyway, I've got a present for you‟,

he heaved the carrier bag in her general direction. „You

always did want to go for the retro 1930s look, so there's

a start,‟ he said as both the girls gathered around to open

the bag and wrapping.

„This is fur,‟ stated Babs, „and you know...‟

„It's fake fur, not the real thing, so you can't get on

your high horse about cruelty to animals.‟

„Not that you idiot!‟ Megan burst out. „We‟re both aller-

gic to fur, cat fur particularly, and if this has been any-

where near a cat we'll both be in trouble.‟

„Ohh... In that case, you'd better not put it on then. I

got it from the cat charity shop.‟

The coat went on the floor as if it were radioactive.

„Thomas James!‟ The formal use of both his forenames

was a family signal that meant Barbara, as distinct from

Babs, was hopping mad at him. „You can damned well

take it back tomorrow.‟

He knew better than to argue with his sisters.

Wednesday 1045h

Thomas stuck his head around the door of the secretarial

pool. „I'll be going out for a few minutes,‟ he told the secre-

taries he shared with the rest of the firm.

„Anything on your diary, Mr T?‟ asked Phyla, the head of

the secretarial team.

„Nothing until later, Phyla. I hope that the valuation of

48

those coins in the Bluddschott estate will be phoned in

sometime today. If the valuer does call, get the value and

I'll phone him back later. I'll have my mobile switched on if

it's really, urgent.‟

„You mean if your grandfather wants you you're out of

contact, I suppose, Mr T?‟

He winked and smiled at her. „Got it in one, Phyla. Any-

way I don't expect to be more than half an hour.‟ So saying

he withdrew his head.

Tom, you've wasted twenty quid. So what are you going to

do with this darned fur coat? He said to himself as he

walked along the High Street. You'd look a real fool if you

took it back to that cat charity place and you can't get

your money back. Caveat Emptor is the rule there. Anyway,

there's no way you could face that awful woman again.

Then he spotted a sign 'Man‟s Best Friend' it said.

Right, he thought, that's it. I'll give it to them; going to the

dogs is about right. He entered the shop and said to the

tattooed man behind the counter, „A little donation for

you. You should get forty quid for it.‟

„Right you are, sir. Thanks a lot for this valuable dona-

tion; we'll take good care of it.‟ Opening the package he

looked at the coat, „If you don't mind me saying so sir,

does your young lady know you're giving this away? I mean

a sable coat in good condition is something that most la-

dies, young or not, would kill for.‟

„An allergic reaction to fur, I'm afraid,‟ Tom replied.

„This is real fur you know,‟ the man behind the counter

said, „not the fake stuff.‟

„Are you sure?‟ Tom asked. „It was bought as faux fur,

you see.‟

The man turned and called. „Rose, can you come out

49

here a moment please. There's this coat I'd like your opin-

ion on.‟

A slight, grey haired, woman in her 60s came, slowly,

out from the back.

Thank heavens, thought Tom, this one's not likely to

think about throwing herself over the counter and ravish-

ing me. That one at the cat place is a menace to all men.

„What do you think this fur coat is made from, Rose?

Real or fake?‟

Rose ran her hands through the fur, turned it over, and

found a label. „One thing I can tell you is that it's as real as

the hair on your heads. It's got that lovely real fur feeling

and anyway these people,‟ she pointed to the label, „don't

make imitation fur coats. I'll just take it in the back and

give it a quick inspection, but, with that label, and this

lovely sable colour, about a £100 price tag I should think.

As long as those animal rights folks don‟t spot it.‟

They did, of course, two hours on the rack and it was the

subject of a heated debate with Geraldine who, faced with

a trio of angry voices from animal lovers, reluctantly took

it off the hanger and told Rose to get rid of the wretched

thing. Rose being Rose did just that and dropped the

beautiful coat off anonymously by the back door of Puss

in Boots. Let them have the hassle with the curly permed,

plastic sandal brigade.

Later that Wednesday

„Ooh, that‟s nice,‟ said Evadne as she took the coat out of

the Tesco bag. „Feel that Cynth.‟

Cynthia turned from rearranging the knitted cats and

50

felt. „Fake,‟ she said, „You can put it out,‟ and turned back

to the cats. No air freshener she‟d tried on them yet had

killed the repulsive smell of cigarettes.

„Nice though,‟ said Evadne, still stroking the fur. „I‟d

look a picture in that, wouldn‟t I Cynth?‟

„You know the rules,‟ said Cynthia. Perhaps if she

soaked the damn things in bleach? She was trying not to

think about the new window display in that wretched dog

shop, which meant they‟d had a fresh delivery, which

meant Mick had been over there, whereas she, Cynthia,

hadn‟t seen hide nor hair of him for a fortnight. That high

and mighty Geraldine Vickers who mucked about pretend-

ing to run „Man‟s Best Friend‟ had got her claws into him,

she, Cynthia, knew she had. She‟d got the hots for her

Lionel as well, hadn‟t she? The woman was a menace.

„Hey,‟ said Evadne. „There‟s something down here on

the hemline. Is there a hole in the pocket?‟

„Why don‟t you feel?‟ Cynthia hated Wednesdays be-

cause she was on alone with Evadne, her stinking breath,

her bristly chin. She‟d be far better off by herself. And

then when Mick did call in… But no matter what hints she

gave out the mad old woman persisted.

Evadne felt. There was a hole, quite a large one. She

pushed her hand through it and fished around until her

fingers grasped something hard and sharp. She pulled it

out. „Look,‟ she said.

Cynthia glanced at the brooch. It was of tiny green and

blue mosaic held together in the vague shape of a butter-

fly by some yellow metal.

„Uh-hu,‟ she said.

„Tina‟s coming in today to value the new jewellery isn‟t

she?‟ said Evadne.

„Okay, stick it in the box,‟ said Cynthia. „But it‟s probably

51

some student from the college on a craft course. Or

something someone from St Paul‟s school made for

Mother‟s Day.‟

Evadne stuck it in the box and went outside for a fag

break.

Wednesday 2.30

Tina brushed a swag of blonde hair behind her ear and

squinted through her lens. „There‟s a lot of scratches on

the back,‟ she said. „But, no hall mark. So it‟s not gold.

The stones could be lapis and turquoise and carnelian,

but probably plastic - look at the size of that orange one!

Not that there‟s anything wrong with plastic of course.

Can look quite good.‟ She pushed back her errant locks

again and pocketed the lens. „You might get a pound or

two for it,‟ she said.

With that the priceless scarab was tossed unceremoni-

ously into the tatt basket on the counter.

Shortly afterwards ...

Police Constable Daniel Smithers was a policeman by day,

but a glamorous drag queen by night. Consequently, he

was often found during off-duty periods, combing the local

charity shops for items of clothing and ornament which

could be used in his act. This week, he was appearing on

stage in one of his favourite roles; that of Cleopatra, fasci-

nating and beguiling queen of the Nile, and he was look-

ing for some special finishing touch to his costume. He

didn‟t know exactly what it was mind.

„Don‟t know what I‟m after, but by George, I‟ll know it

when I see it!‟ he told himself.

52

He wandered into the shop, casting a quick look round,

to check out any new arrivals. His eyes were drawn to a

basket on the end of the shop counter. It contained vari-

ous items of cheap costume jewellery; pearl necklaces,

glass paste earrings, a Victorian mourning brooch, con-

taining a lock of some dead person‟s hair…

„Yuk!‟ he thought… and two dress rings with huge glass

„stones‟, like knuckle-dusters. „Hmm. They could do some-

one some serious damage,‟ he mused, in full law-

enforcement officer mode.

He rustled about in the basket, and BINGO! pulled out

what at first glance appeared to be an authentic scarab.

Not that Danny would know an authentic scarab if it

jumped out and bit him on the bum. But then again, it

would do! Oh yes, this was indeed the object he knew he

would know when he saw it, and here it was! It would look

splendid perched on top of his/her flowing, brunette

locks, right in the middle of his/her forehead. Just what

he needed to complete the look.

„Great! A cheap bit of old plastic, but… exactly what I

need to complete the look!‟ he said out loud, parting with

two fifty pence coins into Evadne‟s outstretched palm.

Meanwhile at the other end of the High Street, „How much

is this mate?‟ asked a voice hidden behind a rail of vin-

tage costume garments.

Randolph gulped, he hated having to guess the price

items when the label was missing. Geraldine could go ape

if he messed up again. How was he supposed to know a

Lalique glass vase was worth more than 50p. The reedy

little voice asked again, „Excuse me ... How much is this?‟

a hand waved a pink satin 1950s brassiere on the end of

53

a spindly arm from behind the clothes rack.

Randolph did a double take, that was a very hairy spin-

dly arm and didn‟t he know that voice? He shuffled in be-

hind the clothes rack.

„Well, well, well ... if it isn‟t Barry Norman-Stanley, the

bloke I‟ve been wanting to have a word with.‟

„It wasn‟t my fault ...‟ the bra waver moaned, his eyes

flashing terror stricken. „How was I to know you were Vic-

tor the Vulongarian? I‟d have done mates‟ rates, if I‟d have

known. Straight up. Cross my heart and hope to ...‟

„What d‟you want this old bra for? You coming out or

sommat?‟ asked Randolph holding the offending object at

arm‟s length and sniffing. „Pink satin, Barry?‟

„It‟s a prop.‟

„What a manga prop? Do you mean to tell me, you draw

from props?‟

„Of course I do,‟ retorted Barry his professionalism

piqued. „What, you think I can imagine whale bone cor-

setry? It‟s my attention to absolute authentic detail

that ...‟

„That brings in the buyers ...‟ Randolph suddenly saw £-

signs floating in front of his big baby blues. „Barry old

fruit ... you and me need each other. Bra 50p‟

„Wrap it up,‟ grinned Barry.

„What are you working on at the moment, dude?‟

Barry grinned. This was a whole new experience for

him. Someone taking an interest in his work. This must be

something called „having a conversation‟. He couldn‟t re-

member the last time that had happened. Besides this

was Randy Andover talking: a dude he had accidentally

screwed over big time. That Randy, the tattooed wonder,

hadn‟t pounded him into the pavement was a very pleas-

ing outcome.

54

„I said, what ...‟

„Sorry, I was thinking the answer but it didn‟t get as far

as my mouth,‟ replied Barry as if this was completely nor-

mal.

„Understood,‟ nodded Randolph, who, too, had only re-

cently realised that verbal communication was the norm

in the world outside his bedroom.

„1960s animation.‟

„Wow!‟ said Randolph his eyes on stilts. „You‟ll need...‟

„Retro gear and ...‟

„Comic book heroes.‟

„Zundar Girl, Princess Fellinda, Mindina the Mer-

woman,‟ drooled Barry his skinny arms waving like fins.

„So the conical bra ...‟

„Zundar Girl.‟

„Of course,‟ nodded Randolph.

Rose looked up from the bag of baby knitting patterns

she was sorting and shook her head: what were those

pair up to with her mother‟s old brassiere?

„Such workmanship,‟ said Barry running his bony fin-

gers over the elaborate wiring.

„Firm control,‟ agreed Randolph his imagination running

wild.

„That‟s quite enough of that,‟ snapped Rose shoving the

garment into a plain carrier bag. „Ring it up Randolph, and

next time it‟s ladies‟ underwear, please ask me to serve

the customer.‟ Grubby little tyke, she thought crossly.

„Certainly, Rose,‟ said Randolph winking at Barry as his

new best friend scurried out of the shop with owl-like

peepers blinking in the sunlight. Randolph watched Barry

struggle with the door to the beamer. Brand new, still un-

der warrantee ... Randolph eyed Rose with pity, poor old

soul, dusting away to her heart‟s content. All he had to do

55

now was make sure he did the sorting and price fixing on

the retro gear destined for Barry‟s artistry and to fix the

profits cut with Barry, to whom he was going to be indis-

pensible.

Things were looking up, and didn‟t his parole officer say

he needed to make new friends and get a new hobby.

Wednesday around midday

Thomas Green, the Junior Solicitor in the family firm, had

an idea running through his head. An idea that was say-

ing; 'All Lady Lucy's personal effects from Bluddschott

Manor ended up in the hands of Mick Grabble. See if he's

found anything that's on the list of missing items.'

Once he'd left the office and dropped the unwearable,

fur coat off in the charity shop, he went to find Mick Grab-

ble.

A noisy machine, sounding from the rear of the Grabble

premises, told him somebody was about. The office

proved to be empty, so he followed his ears. A sliding door

was liberally plastered with various standard signs that

said:

DANGER KEEP OUT,

AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY PAST THIS POINT

EAR PROTECTION TO BE WORN,

FACE MASKS MANDATORY,

PROTECTIVE FOOTWEAR AREA

and, in hand painted letters, Ragging Shop, Tom

opened it and looked in. A figure was busy at a machine.

The figure was some kind of blue shelled insect with star-

ing goggle eyes above a horrid wrinkled snout, wiry, knob-

bly, antenna sticking out of a shiny yellow head and ugly

56

57

round black ears.

Picking a piece of cloth, recognisably a T-shirt, from

the bin beside it the creature ran it through the machine

in two practised swipes and threw the halves into baskets.

Then, realising he was there, gave an glassy expres-

sionless glance at him, held up a green human like hand,

raised two fingers to indicate two minutes and waved him

away. He went, glad to be away from the horror in the

room.

As the machine noise died away Thomas braced him-

self for the monster that he was sure would be coming

through that door.

The extremely good looking, trim, young woman who

appeared was a far cry from anything he'd expected. Tho-

mas felt his heart leap in his chest, he'd heard of love at

first sight and even felt a passion, although he'd admit

was probably lust, for some of his previous girl friends, but

it was the first time he'd ever felt anything like this.

A beam of sunlight broke through the clouds and fell

directly on her as she held out her hand towards him in

greeting. „Good morning! I'm Jean Grabble, part owner of

the business.‟

His heart not so much sank as plummeted down!

She was Mrs Grabble! She couldn't be anything else!

He'd heard, all too often, about the pitfalls of falling for

married women and he'd done it.

„You probably know my brother, Mick, who's the other

half of the firm. He's not in at present, but I can deal with

anything he can.‟

The Sun not only shone, it blazed forth in majestic

glory, as he heard himself breathlessly gabble, „I'm Tom

Green... Solicitor... Dealing with Lady Bluddschott's es-

tate,‟ as he shook that gorgeous hand on that glorious

58

day.

„I'm going to have a coffee, Mr Green. Would you care

for one?‟

Coffee! He'd gladly have drunk poison if she'd offered it

to him. He floated alongside her as she talked of... he

never did know exactly what she'd said as they walked

across to the house. It was enough that she was there!

Over a coffee cup, and a plates of cakes that this god-

dess said she'd baked herself, Tom, barely, got a grip of

himself. He was here on business and he could almost

hear his Grandfather‟s voice saying, 'Don't make a fool of

yourself over some young woman, Thomas. There's plenty

of time to sort out a good steady girl for your wife.'

That thought was almost being buried by a small voice

in his head that was saying, 'THIS is the one for you. Grab

hold of her before somebody else does!'

Frantically searching for something to say, Tom looked

around the sparklingly clean and very modern kitchen and

saw a series of framed certificates, each one from a re-

spected school or institute.

„I see you are collecting certificates,‟ he said. „Antique

ephemera should show a good return in a couple of

years.‟

Jean laughed at him. „They aren't antiques, Tom. Some

are Mick's, but most of them are mine. Open University in

the main. The best thing that ever happened to me was

signing on for OU courses.‟ She sighed and continued,

„Just because I left school without any A levels doesn't

mean that I'm ignorant, you know. I got my BA in Arts two

years ago and am working towards an MA.‟

Tom was overjoyed, „Good,‟ he said. „I've got some

questions to ask you, Jean. If you don't mind that is?‟

Jean shrugged. „Ask away. I'll answer if I can.‟

59

Gulping air Tom slid his hand across the table. „The

first question is a difficult one,‟ he said as he captured

her hand. „Can I take you out tonight? Not far, to the local

theatre. Trentby Dramatic Society is doing the annual

show.‟

Jean smiled and gave her silvery laugh. „I'll be there,

Tom. I'm a member and it's my turn in the box office to-

night.‟ Her eyes twinkled and laughed at him. „Meet me in

the bar afterwards. Now what's your next question?‟

„Will you marry me!‟ It came out like the cork from a

bottle.

A serious look came into her eyes. „I must say you don't

hang around much. Do you always propose to, or maybe

that's proposition, a girl ten minutes after you first meet

her?‟

„This is the first time I've ever asked a woman to marry

me, Jean,‟ Tom replied. „I fell in love with you when you es-

caped from that monster in the ragging shop.‟

Jean threw her head back and laughed, a full and

hearty sound. With difficulty she stopped laughing, although

a little chuckle escaped her lips now and again. „I'd love

you for that alone, Thomas. A monster in the ragging

shop?‟ A small chuckle escaped and a smile ran around

her face. „That was me in my protective clothing, Thomas.

You know: safety helmet, face mask, ear defenders and

so forth.‟

Thomas thought that his name in her mouth was an-

gelic.

„A serious question like that deserves a proper answer.

The answer is that I don't know you, Thomas. I can't say

yes, and I can't say no, what I can say is that we'll have to

see. Meet me tonight in the theatre bar.‟ She stood up

and came around the table, placed her hands on his

60

shoulders, leaned over and kissed him, lightly, on the lips.

„Thank you for asking me though.‟

With extreme difficulty, Tom pulled himself together. „If

you won't marry me will you please look at this list and tell

me if you have seen any of the things on it?‟ He passed

the list and photo's across the table.

Jean picked up the list and read rapidly through it, her

face becoming a delightful picture of rapt concentration.

„Horse shoe brooch, gold and diamonds. Yes, I can tell you

about that... Scarab, nothing. I've seen it in Lady L's jewel-

lery box though. She let me play with it when I was

a youngster. She used to tell me the story of how she,

'came across it', was her term. What it boiled down to was

that she nicked it when she was a nipper, sometime in the

1930s I think, when she was in Egypt on an archaeologi-

cal dig with some relatives. Don't think it was worth much;

but she did say that it was unusual because the words,

she could read the hieroglyphics you know. She even

taught Mick and me some so that we could use it as a se-

cret language. It was fun.‟

She turned back to the list, „Fur coat, sable? Hmm,

Mick told me he saw one go into one of the bags a few

days ago; you'd have to ask him where he took it... Gold

coins? Not a chance there, we wouldn't deal with them.

Mind you, when you're dealing with Lady L they could have

gone anywhere, or be hidden under the floorboards for

that matter. Have you looked under the oak tree? She

used to bury things around there, but you'll need a metal

detector, or some dowsing rods, to find them if they are

buried.‟

Jean brought a gold bar brooch into the kitchen and

showed it to Thomas. „This was on a coat that Her Lady-

ship told Mick to get rid of,‟ she explained. „Let me have

61

another look at that list, please Tom.‟

Thomas passed the list across the table. „It's there,‟

he pointed and shivered when Jean‟s fingers touched his.

„One hundred and fifty pounds according to this list,

but it's out of date. That's too low for something like this,‟

she picked up the brooch and pinned it to her blouse top.

„My estimate is something like two to three hundred at

auction.‟

Then a thought occurred to her. „You know, Thomas,

the Countess is in trouble.‟ A small smile played on her

lips. „She‟s one of the beneficiaries of Lady L's Will; which

means that it was hers when the old dear died, but she

gave this away before it could be included in the settle-

ment of the estate. That means that it's legally mine, well

mine and Mick's anyway, but that she gets stuck for any

death duty. Serve the stuck up cat right. I like it!‟ Then she

burst out into silvery peals of laughter.

Still smiling she took Thomas's hand and pulled him

towards the door saying. „Bring some money with you to-

night, Thomas. I'm an expensive girl to court and I'll be

hungry when the curtain comes down.‟

The Puss in Boots charity shop depended on street collec-

tions for some of its income, so this morning found Dylis

and Iris, two of the volunteers, busy with the bags of items

brought in on the previous day.

Iris Freebody a greying blonde, not yet past her sell by

date, and a size 12 she always insisted and hoping to stay

that way on her new diet. She was putting away yester-

day‟s collection when she called upstairs to Dylis in the

stockroom, 'Let's have our morning break shall we I'm

parched already today and I'm wondering which bog stan-

62

dard part of our town sent in this lot. Look at these not

even washed, they'll not be worth much' and she shud-

dered at handling them: 'Thank heaven we wear plastic

gloves,' and she tied up the bag with the unwashed y-

fronts ready for the recycling bin.

Dylis was a similar age to Iris, but, as a comfortable

size 18, she lived up to her image of a cuddly gran the

only concession she made was her well cut hair style sil-

ver now shaped to her head and still her pride and joy.

From the stockroom she called down,'I'm almost fin-

ished this pressing it makes such a difference to a good

jacket,' she skilfully steered the hot iron round the damp-

ened collar then in a lowered voice she said, 'Iris do come

and see what's pinned under the collar, it's that funny

brooch we had in our bargain box a few days ago, so why

is it on this coat?'

That made Iris hurry upstairs to see, although a cup of

tea would have been more welcome than a bit of costume

jewellery. Dylis was by the back window turning it over and

over to catch the light, 'Ooo ' she sighed,' I'd love this for

our Sophie, she loves dressing as I've told you,' and away

she went into her grandma mood about it.

„Let‟s have our tea,' grumbled Iris, she had heard it all

before about Sophie and her dressing up games, so pull-

ing out a stool she sat down and poured their tea.' I shall

never get used to what some people put in our bags it's

disgusting, fancy not washing them,' and she grumbled

on. Dylis was still by the window lost in her own thoughts,

'Do you think I could buy this brooch,' she said, smiling at

Iris and quite forgetting the shop rules. With an audible

sigh Iris got up to serve a customer leaving Dylis to drink

her tea, however she came back in a better mood, the

customer had spent fifteen pounds.

63

'Now what were you wittering on about,' she asked on

her return,

„I would really love this brooch for Sophie, she's in a

school play soon it could go on her head dress. What do

you think?'

'What I think,' said Iris with heavy sarcasm, 'if you don't

hurry and pay me for it and put it out of sight we shall

have bossy boots in looking all pink and Barbara Cartland,

you never know what her mood will be after a visit to the

bank.‟ And so the scarab again moved on weaving it‟s

magic on those it touched.

Wednesday Evening

British Municipal Museum Egyptian Section

„Do you know, our Ethel?‟ said team leader, Mrs Grim-

shaw, stuffing her mop into the bucket with a jaunty plop.

Ethel Scatterthwaite took her ears out and strains of Leo-

nard Cohen wafted across the deserted antechamber and

bounced off the nearby sarcophagus. Her nose wrinkled

in anticipation, given the odd wine gum and Mrs G was a

bit of a raggy trousered philosopher in Ethel‟s humble

opinion.

„Look here, this wasn‟t there last week, was it?‟

Ethel shuffled over to the open sarcophagus in the

glass case. The cleaning team leader was right. There was

something different about the half-wrapped Bluddschott

mummy. An indefinable something, but definitely a some-

thing. Was he smiling?

„And, that‟s not all,‟ said Mrs G scratching her spare

tyre with a handy feather duster handle, „look at his nibs.

Tell me that‟s in the same place? Look at the dust!‟

Ethel obliged and inspected the plinth of the associated

64

65

deity. The statue of Anubis, the dog faced god, was defi-

nitely in a slightly different place than the previous week

as the disturbed dust ring clearly indicated and as it

weighed over half a ton it wasn‟t as if some kid had leant

on it.

„It is a bit weird,‟ agreed Ethel, although she‟d always

thought the Egyptian rooms were on the spooky side,

always wondered if hundred‟s of eyes followed them

round the room, she was especially careful not to skimp

on the corners in here. „What is he anyway? What did he

do?‟

Mrs G beamed her knowledgeable beam. She hadn‟t

wasted the thirty years she‟d been washing these hal-

lowed floors. „Anubis is associated with mummification

and the afterlife: he weighs the heart of the deceased.‟

„Is that why he‟s next to the Bluddschott mummy?‟

„Ahh ... well ... this one, this Anubis statue, was actually

dug up with the mummy in the case. He was guarding this

actual mummy in the royal tomb.‟

„Royal? I didn‟t think this one was royalty?‟ said Ethel

swinging a mop towards the glass case dismissively.

„Worse,‟ said Mrs G, her attention suddenly taken up by

the glitter of a dropped fifty pence piece, „he was a temple

builder and high priest to the goddess Dumilla. A match-

maker by all accounts, liked to make mischief. Set folks

up with unsuitable partners. Priests with scullery maids,

fine ladies with a bit of rough. All good fun!‟

„Dumilla the goddess of reincarnation and rebirth,‟ said

Ethel wandering after Mrs G as a shaft of sunlight fell on

Anubis and for a second the eyes blazed.

Thursday

66

Shortly after nine-o-clock, Thomas stuck his head around

the door to the secretarial pool and said to the four in-

habitants, „If anybody wants me I've gone up to the Manor,

to see the Countess about the contents of the Estate of

the late Lady Lucinda. I should be back just after lunch.‟

„Right you are Mr Thomas. Gone to see a client. Back

after lunch. Have you got any appointments this after-

noon?‟ replied Phyla the leading secretary.

„Just a conveyance meeting at four, Phyla. If anybody

wants me, urgently I'll have my mobile switched on.‟

„You mean if your Grandfather wants you you're not

available again, I suppose, Mr T?‟

„Got it in one Phyla. See you later.‟

„Oh, while you're there, Mr T. would you give my Aunt

Marge my love and tell her I'll ring her tonight, please?‟

„I didn't know you were related to the Potts clan, Phyla.‟

„Only by marriage, Mr T I suppose you could say we're a

sort of a Sept, my mum's related to her cousin Vera, the

saucy one. It's a distant relationship, but we all know each

other.‟

The way into Bluddschott Manor was cluttered by the

accoutrements of Trentby City Interior Designers and

Decorators. Thomas managed to squeeze his way around,

although fight his way through was more accurate, all the

clutter that this well-known firm had brought along.

Their motto of Enhancing Your Quality of Life, as embla-

zoned across all six of the vans left misarranged around

the courtyard, seemed to have been mislaid somewhere

along the way as there was a blazing row, really more of

an harangue, going on between the Countess and one of

the decorators.

67

„I‟m not paying you a penny until I see some work being

done!‟ The Countess told him. „I mean proper work not

this arty-farty what-ever you have going on in those rooms.

Brushes being wielded to put paint on, carpenters making

sawdust, electricians putting sockets in and all the rest of

the stuff on the schedule. No work, no money!‟ The Count-

ess was in full voice as she came up to a grand finish,

„FULL STOP! Now get a move on or I‟ll ruin you. Have - you

- got – that – little - man?‟ She poked her finger with each

word then turned and stormed off.

Thomas almost felt sorry for the Little Man, who was

actually well built and 6 foot tall. He wouldn‟t want to be

on Her Ladyship‟s black list either.

As he squeezed past another chunk of scaffolding he

said, „Take a tip from me mate. If I were you, I‟d take her

very seriously. She has more money, and influence, than

anybody else in the town. She‟s got you over a barrel and

you‟d better make sure that you do what she says.‟

The man‟s face dropped. „But we can‟t start until we

get some up-front cash. We‟ve got to buy the materials

and stuff,‟ he explained.

Thomas carried on fighting his way through the mess.

„That‟s what Bank Managers are for,‟ he said, unhelpfully.

„And, if I were you, I‟d get this junk tidied up; she doesn‟t

like clutter either!‟

When he reached her study, he found the Countess in

a smiling good temper. „That sorry little man‟s got a cheek

asking for money up front,‟ she said to him. „Your father

did a good job on the contract and I‟m sticking to it. Stage

payments on results it says and that‟s what that oily oik is

getting. Now, what can I do for you?‟

„It‟s about the Will,‟ Thomas explained. „I‟ve been told

that Lady Lucinda sometimes buried things in the grounds

68

and I‟d like your permission to do a search for them.‟

„Metal detectors and such I suppose.‟ She paused for

thought. „Very well, Mr Green, you can have next week to

do what searches you like. You can begin today and must

be finished by Saturday; when my visitors from New York

and Paris will be here. I won‟t have your grubby metal de-

tectorists cluttering up my grounds over the holidays.‟

Thomas had been told that a few days would do for a

first search and agreed. An hour, and a phone call, later a

van pulled up outside Bluddschott Manor and disgorged

several men with metal detectors. They did a search in

several likely locations and came up with a few old nails,

the water pipe into the house, and a few „dry‟ holes. Then

the serious work started with their „geo-phizz‟ mapping.

From an elderly car descended an elderly woman. She

looked around, sniffed, took two steel rods from the boot,

and started to walk randomly around holding the rods out

in front of her. Every so often she would stoop down and

put a coloured peg into the ground. After half an hour she

stopped and walked to where Thomas was sitting in a fold

up chair.

„A fool‟s errand,‟ she told him, sharply. „Those idle

metal detector people,‟ she waved to indicate them, sit-

ting drinking tea from flasks, „should have found all these

places. Two places where there‟s copper, another six with

iron in them, and only one with gold. Quite a large amount

I feel. I‟ve marked them, it‟s red for copper, black for iron

and yellow for the gold. I‟ll send you my invoice tomorrow.

Good day to you!‟ She turned, walked back to her car and

drove off.

Thomas had been warned that this dowser was short

tempered and wouldn‟t do any digging.

Assisted by the „idle metal detector people‟ Thomas

69

went to where the yellow marker was stuck into the grass.

„She said there was gold here,‟ he told them.

„Right then, let‟s get digging,‟ said the leader metal de-

tectorist, and stuck his spade into the ground. A little way

down they came across a strongly built wooden chest.

When opened it contained about two hundred gold coins.

„One up for Lady L then,‟ the leader said. „This has got

to go to the Coroner for a decision as to it being treasure

trove or not; and that takes from six to twelve months.‟

Thomas smiled, that was another tick on his to-do list.

Wednesday evening after 1945h.

Thomas was the lonely occupant of the theatre bar, the

show starring, if that was the right term, which he

doubted, Danny LaDoo had started fifteen minutes ago.

Jean was in the box office cashing up for the night whilst

he was waiting, waiting, waiting for Jean Grabble, the star

of his life to appear. He didn't mind waiting, he would, he

thought, wait forever for her.

'Another drink, squire? While you're waiting for whoever

it is you're waiting for?' The barman, obviously a staff

member, asked him.

'Yes, a bitter lemon, please.' Tom was out to impress

and having his breath smelling of something alcoholic

wasn't on the cards. The barman was, obviously, not im-

pressed by this heroic attitude.

Suddenly the door swung open and the light of his life,

surrounded by a glowing nimbus of pearly light, filled his

sight. She was here! The most perfect woman in the

world, the one he was going to marry, and marry very

soon. The mother of his children and the supporter of his

dreams.

70

Through the haze he did note that it was different Jean.

The Jean he'd met earlier wore red jeans, safety boots,

and a blouse over a T-shirt. This Jean wore a tailored busi-

ness suit that outlined her absolute perfection.

'Hi Tom, I saw you come in earlier, but you know how it

is in that kiosk. Too small and rushed off your feet most of

the time. Get me a drink will you? A glass of lemonade

would be nice.' Thomas floated across to the bar and back

with the glass.

Jean took a deep drink. 'That's better,' she said. 'Now

Thomas what about you? What do you do, what family

have you, what plans do you have? I need to know all

about you.'

Thomas smiled as he replied. 'Mum, Dad, Babs and

Meg my sisters. Grandpas and Grans on both sides, and a

raft of relatives. You'll have to meet them all sometime

soon. I'm the junior in the family firm and will probably

stay there for some time, maybe forever, I don't know.' He

slid off his chair and onto his knees, 'I love you, will you

marry me? Today, tomorrow, sometime soon?'

Jean's face became thoughtful. 'Not today or tomorrow,

Thomas, but you may have a chance on the sometime

soon, I think. That all depends on how well we suit each

other.' She smiled and, as she spoke, Thomas felt shivers

run up his back, he'd never felt like this before. 'We've an

hour to talk before the interval and after that; if you‟re

very nice to me, you can take me out for a meal.'

They chatted, Thomas didn't know, or care, about what,

until the interval bell rang. The sound changed Jean from

the flirtatious girl he was getting to know to a business

person. He was even more impressed, here was someone

who had more than one facet to their life and could switch

between them. He could never, really, stop being a lawyer

71

but, maybe, it was something he could learn. He could try

anyway. Sighing he sat back and watched the 'other' Jean

Grabble at work.

After the interval Jean took him back-stage to meet the

cast. Danny La Do was in the wings doing a lightening

change into his „Cleopatra Costume‟. 'Can't talk now, dar-

ling,' he said, in a high pitched voice, 'this is a very quick

change. Is my hat on straight, dear.' The Egyptian head

piece had a very OTT scarab hanging down into the centre

of his forehead.

'Nice jewellery there; where did you get it from?' Jean

asked Danny.

'Oh, that's from one of the charity shops, Jean darling.

The cats one I think. Cost me a whole pound as well, mind

you I don't think it really suits me though, do you dear?

Not quite 'me' really, if you know what I mean! If you want

it, sweetheart, you can have it when I come off stage.'

Standing up and giving 'her' make-up a last look,

'Cleopatra' went through the scenery flats, paused, and,

right on cue, swept into the next act. Minutes later, not

wanting to offend, Jean smiled gracefully as the tasteless

trinket was tossed her way by the retreating „star‟ tripping

in his high-heels as the sound of thunderous applause

rang in his imagination and the actually booing and the

common ... „Gerr Off You Idiot‟ was blanked out. But next

morning she buried the unwanted item in one of the col-

lection bags destined for Mans‟ Best Friend where it was

delivered by her brother within the hour, where in turn it

was discovered by Randolph Andover, who slipped the

find straight into his pocket.

Sometime later:

72

73

They‟d never miss it for one day. Randolph stared fasci-

nated by the shiny object nestling in his palm. It wasn‟t

nicking if he was going to take it back. It was borrowing. It

was so pretty. It shone, it glistened, it sparkled in the tiny

glint of daylight that was allowed through the chink in his

bedroom curtains so his goldfish wouldn‟t die of despair.

This bit of bling was exactly what Victor the Vulongarian

would give to his number one concubine, Princess Ange-

likka, to cement the alliance with the King of the Zorrun-

astrians. Randolph had toyed with the prospect of a mar-

riage alliance but that thought that brought him out in a

rash of boils under his armpit so he had suppressed it.

Concubine it would have to be. He was too young for the

prospect of marriage, even a virtual marriage. His mum,

Carol, said he had „commitment issues‟ like his dad, wher-

ever he was.

Randolph weighed the item of his desire. It was heavy.

Pity it wasn‟t real gold. It shone like real gold. But, nagh, it

was only gold paint. Wasn‟t it?

Should he keep it? Nagh! Barry could copy it and use it

for Princess Angelikka‟s presentation regalia. It could

hang round her neck and snuggle between her full

rounded ...

Randolph‟s armpits started sweating again.

Randolph grabbed his hoodie, „Going out, mum. Got my

keys. I‟m going round to Barry‟s.‟

In the kitchen of 9, Princes‟ Avenue, hands floured and

face flushed, Mrs Carol Andover, divorcee, who was bak-

ing for the WI bake sale, heard the stairs clump and the

front door close as her son went out, the Bluddschott sa-

cred scarab secreted in his pocket. She smiled, such a

nice turn of events, who‟d have thought Randolph would

74

find a friend through working in the charity shop. And did-

n‟t his probation officer, that nice Miss Wainwright, say he

needed to be encouraged to go outside more.

Randolph grinned as his size twelves hammered up

Barry‟s stairs to his lair under the eaves in the attic space.

Barry had long outgrown his bedroom and taken over the

loft. His mother had wanted to have it properly converted,

but Barry was adamant. He wanted the grunge look to

stay, so apart from some boards slung between the joints,

an old sofa and jerry rigged electrics for the bank of PCs,

the loft was still pretty much a loft.

Barry had consented with reluctance to having a Velux

window installed but that was not for the health and

safety reasons stressed by his dear mother. Oh no!

„Bit radical, old mate,‟ said Randolph on his first day-

light visit to the sanctuary of the Vulongarian Overlord,

pointing to the roof light. „What‟s that?‟ his interest piqued

by a glint of shiny metal.

Barry had the decency to flush with embarrassment.

„Nothing, bro. Shall we get on? What „ave you got for me?‟

Randolph ignored the „bro‟, Barry was rushing their

„best mates‟ relationship, but if he thought this business

arrangement had a social element then all the better. He

tossed the scarab to Barry.

„It‟s for ...‟

„Princess Angelikka,‟ breathed Barry reaching for his

stylus and drawing pad. As the portraiture artist in Barry

surfaced, and it had a long way to come, Randolph rum-

maged beneath an old crocheted baby blanket to discover

Barry‟s secret shiny.

„Wow! Barry you dog!‟ explained Randolph exposing the

75

telescope and screwing his eyeball into the eye-piece.

„Whoa ... who is that?‟ Randolph had discovered Barry‟s

source. The zoom lens was focused on a rooftop exten-

sion in Princes‟ Avenue. On a loft level bedroom in

Princes‟ Avenue. On the rooftop extension to number 11,

Princes‟ Avenue. A figure entered the room, Randolph

gasped. The Goth girl wandering around in nothing but her

tats, nose rings and hair extensions totally oblivious to

Barry‟s all seeing eye was his next-door neighbour, Shar-

lene Mountjoy. As she turned an enormous dragon tattoo

breathed fired over her naked shoulder ... Randolph

jumped away from the telescope.

„Can‟t you tell?‟ said Barry somewhat affronted. „It‟s ...‟

„Princess Angelikka,‟ said Randolph totally overcome by

a wave of emotions.

„Didn‟t I tell you? I always work from a model.‟

Deirdre Drinkwater was mooning about. Her mind was

clearly not on the job of dusting the window display. She

had polished the plastic statue of Hercules with the bro-

ken helmet three times and totally neglected to shake the

dust off the heap of knitted dogs which, as usual, sadly

graced the charity‟s display.

Deirdre was still flicking about with the feather duster

when Cynthia Saunders meandered by casting an apprais-

ing glance into the rival establishment, to gain an insight

into their marketing plan. Deirdre didn‟t notice the vision

in various shades of puce and pink pulling faces at the

pile of overstuffed dogs of all descriptions. Deirdre was on

the look-out for only one thing: Mick Grabble.

It was as her nose actually made contact with the shop

window that standing on the pavement, Cynthia noticed

76

two things, the bizarre antics of the weird volunteer with a

face only a mother could love, and that Lady Annabelle

Bluddschott‟s Land Rover had pulled into the only parking

place left on the High Street.

„Good morning, your Ladyship...‟ smiled Cynthia doing

her best not to drop a curtsey. Cynthia was big on royalty,

not that this brassy heiress had any claims on nobility, not

much grandeur being attached to pork bangers.

Lady Annabelle nodded and strode past, entering the

establishment of Mans‟ Best Friend without a word, leav-

ing Cynthia blinking at the affront. Meanwhile at the rear

of the premises, Randolph was opening the door to ac-

cept another delivery.

„Hey up, lad. Giss an „and with this lot. Albert Mews,

might be a bit tasty,‟ said Mick, dumping four black bin

bags onto the floor.

Leaving the kettle, Randolph rushed to oblige, the sa-

cred scarab safely concealed in his back pocket. Jumping

into the back of the collection van where he was out of

sight, Randolph hastily pushed the scarab into a conven-

ient split in a plastic bag thoughtfully marked „bits and

pieces‟ by the donator.

It was as the last of the bags was secured in the back

room that Manageress Geraldine, her face slightly

flushed, and Lady Annabelle emerged from the shop front,

and that Lady Annabelle was confronted by both the tat-

tooed muscles of the sweating young offender, and the

wide-eyed charms of the older ragman, who was holding

the split bag and now giving her ladyship his full attention.

It was a moment of choice, and for once Lady Bluddschott

was temporarily lost for words as their eyes met over the

sea of black bin bags.

In the shop, over by the till, Deirdre Drinkwater glanced

77

up into the security mirror which covered any activity in

the rear stock room and wailed. It was a silent wail. But

she knew her place in the pecking order. That over-

dressed besom held all the aces: how could she compete

with Lady Annabelle for Mick‟s attentions? Deirdre cud-

dled a stuffed poodle to her sagging bosom as her double

chins wobbled in the abject despair of the rejected.

Some weeks ago while rummaging, PC Daniel Smithers

had noticed the tag on Randolph‟s ankle and had thought

to himself, I‟ll keep a close eye on that one!

He knew the station sergeant was keen to boost the

crime clear-up rate in Trentby, which, at just 2% was at an

all time low, and Smithers saw an opportunity of boosting

his own ratings and prospects of promotion at the same

time, and with very little effort on his part. All good news

as far as he was concerned.

So it was that he saw it as his civic duty as protector of

the public and upholder of law and order, that whenever

Randolph was in the charity shop, PC Smithers would hide

behind a rail of clothing, or pile of boxes, to spy on

Randolph and catch him in flagrante, or red-handed, or up

to no good.

What he was unaware of, was that Randolph was well

aware of him, with his large, bulky frame and clumsiness,

and took a very dim view. On more than one occasion, he

complained to his shop colleagues or customers, or any-

one within earshot, „Hey, I‟ll have him! That counts as po-

lice harassment, that does!‟

Tiffany Topliss, 29-year-old reporter with The Daily Oracle,

78

drove her red Fiat Panda through the wide gates of

Bluddschott Hall, her tyres crunching on the gravel, and

came to a halt outside the imposing oak front door. Hop-

ping out of the car, she straightened her short skirt and

grabbed the bell pull. Down the empty, hollow corridors of

the hall, the sound echoed, eventually reaching the scul-

lery, where Mrs Marge Potts, housekeeper, was busy dis-

cussing the day‟s to do list with the cook and the maid.

„That‟ll be that reporter from The Oracle, I expect. What

a racket! We‟ll get back to this in a mo, ladies.‟

Irritated, Marge opened the creaking door just wide

enough to peer out, and check that it was indeed Miss

Topliss. Then she promptly slammed it, shouting,

„Tradesmen round the back, if you don‟t mind!‟

Sir Lionel Bluddschott had an eye for a pretty girl. He

knew Miss Tiffany Topliss by reputation and was not

happy that the housekeeper had sent such an adorable

creature to the back door of the Manor before showing

her into his plush office. He apologised profusely, regret-

ting that she hadn't been received with the respect due to

an important and talented reporter, taking the opportunity

to prolong his handshake while looking into her pretty

blue eyes.

„You're interested in the missing scarab, I understand,‟

he said, still holding her hand and staring into her eyes.

Miss Tiffany smiled back, thinking, I know what you're

interested in Sir Lionel and it certainly isn't helping me to

write an article about a missing scarab.

„Come and sit down, my dear,‟ said the Colonel, leading

her by the arm to a comfortable leather sofa.

Tiffany thanked him, sat down gracefully, crossed her

legs and took out her notepad and pencil. „There is a ru-

mour going round that your aunt, the Dowager Lady

79

Lucinda, once owned this item of jewellery, a brooch that

has gone missing after being sent to one of the town's

charity shops,‟ she said with a sweet smile. ‟I wonder if

you remember seeing such a piece.‟

„Well,‟ said the Colonel, eyeing the reporter's short mini

skirt, „I'm not the sort of man who takes much notice of

what people are wearing. Why all the interest in an old

brooch?‟

„Professor Toogood, who as you know does valuable vol-

unteer work at the Puss-in-Boots charity shop, is an ex-

pert of ancient Egypt and when the brooch was described

to him, he became ecstatic. Unfortunately, staff at the

shop searched high and low for this object, but it had mys-

teriously disappeared. I thought that if it had once been in

Lady Lucinda's possession, you might remember seeing it.

My editor is anxious to help the police by publishing a de-

scription in the local paper. Hopefully, this will help in

tracing it.‟

The Colonel knew exactly what the brooch looked like,

but wanting to see Miss Tiffany again, he told her he

would think about it overnight and invited her back to the

Manor at 10 o'clock the next day. Then he absolutely in-

sisted that she had a sherry with him before leaving, say-

ing it helped his memory and he never liked to drink

alone. Tiffany accepted the drink, emptying it into a plant

pot a few minutes later when the Colonel turned his back

to refill his glass.

„I really have to go now,‟ Tiffany said, sweetly. „I have an

appointment with Evadne... She's always in and out of the

Puss-in-Boots and she might be able to help us. I really

have to get something for my editor.‟

„That Evadne woman is senile,‟ said the Colonel.

„Smokes like a trooper and drinks like a fish. I don't think

80

you'll get any sense out of her. I'll tell you what, instead of

coming back here tomorrow, why don't we have dinner to-

night? I'm sure I'll have remembered something by them.‟

Randolph knew his place. In the pecking order of Mans‟

Best Friend volunteers he was the lowest of the low, any-

thing of a „thinking‟ nature was not his business, he was

manual help only.

Thus it was as Lady Whattsit and Mick Grabble were

having an eye-contact moment, which was dragging emo-

tional torment and the prospect of wild desire upto the

level of an Olympic sporting event, Randolph did what he

did best and sloped off out of the way, sporting the black

bin bag with a slit rent in it as he went.

„Here you are,‟ he said, dropping the donations bag at

the feet of Deirdre Drinkwater who was very flushed

around the jowls and grasping hold of the cash till in a

very strange manner with her gaze riveted on the security

mirror where the „Lady Chatterley‟ moment going on in the

back room.

„Hang things up,‟ she snapped and waved majestically

towards the „As Yet Un-priced‟ rail.

This was exactly what Randolph had wanted. No-one

would notice what he was doing. He set to with gusto,

haphazardly hanging the various garments on to hangers.

„Not like that, you chump,‟ said Deirdre, snatching a

pair of polka dotted slacks of epic marquee proportions

from a size 10 coat hanger. „You have to size the item to

the hanger size.‟

Randolph looked blankly at the hanger and the polka

dots. Sizing! That was something dudes had a mum for,

wasn‟t it?

81

„Give it here. Go and fetch some doughnuts from next

door,‟ sighed Deirdre handing over a fiver from the pocket

of her piny. Randolph blinked, volunteers were definitely

not allowed to have any money of their own on the shop

floor. So he wasn‟t the only one breaking the rules round

here.

„What sort?‟ he asked remembering that the daily

doughnut ritual was a minefield of complication, and

Trentby Bakery had the widest selection in town, and he

should know, he had in his schooldays tried them all.

Emm ... at that moment Randolph had an epiphany reve-

lation ... Trentby Bakery ... proprietor Mrs Mountjoy. Mrs

Mountjoy, who was Sharleen‟s grandma. Sharleen worked

there during the summer hols, didn‟t she? Was it the sum-

mer hols? Had college broke up yet? Randolph looked

round the shop for a calendar. What day was it? What

month? Was it summer yet? A light pinged on somewhere

in that blank recess of a science fiction immersed frontal

cortex ... it would be hours before he could go online as

he wasn‟t allowed his phone in the shop. He‟d buy a

newspaper that would have a date on. Oh dear, he would

have bought one if he had any money... never mind. He

could work with this idea and as he hesitated by the door-

way he actually felt himself grinning from ear to ear. That

was a strange new sensation.

„Get an assortment,‟ grumbled Deirdre who felt the ur-

gent need for a double choc doughnut with dairy custard

coming on, and thus didn‟t notice the change in the de-

meanour of the usually reclusive recidivist. Then as the

shop door closed behind Randolph‟s size twelve Biker

Boots Deirdre heard a clunk and on looking under the

counter found the item that had clunked and rolled.

„Where did you spring from? I wondered where you‟d

82

got to.‟ With that Deirdre gave the sacred Bluddschott

scarab a rub with her piny and dropped it back into the

junk jewellery box by the till making a mental note to write

out another price ticket when she had less on her mind

than Mick Grabble‟s imagined infidelity with a member of

the aristocracy and the prospect of chocolate doughnuts.

Strange to say but that at the very moment of the piny

rubbing, a shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom of the Brit-

ish Municipal Museum and the obsidian eye of the guard-

doghead statue in the Bluddschott exhibit, glinted with

malice.

Mick Grabble, half of „Grabble & Sons (Recycling)‟, was

busy in the ragging shop „recycling‟ a load of old tat into

something he could sell: rags.

The other half, his sister Jean, was also busy. She was

one of „the Sons‟ (Dad was a bit previous there); „Front-of-

House-Staff‟ and „Chief Accountant‟, amongst other

things, but the thing on her mind was the young solicitor,

Thomas Green. He had proposed marriage twice daily for

the last four days.

„Should I accept?‟ she mused aloud. „Tom‟s a nice

bloke, washes regularly; which is more than some people

do around here, got good prospects. Hmmm… No, Jeannie

girl think about that one, he has a steady job, that‟s what

he‟s got. Well spoken and polite and mad over you. Can

you get on with him though? Give it try girl; you can always

change your mind.‟ Reaching over she picked up the

phone and dialled a number she knew, now, by heart.

Thomas must have been a mind reader as he said,

„Hello, Jean,‟ as he answered.

„Hi, Tom, how did you know it was me on the phone?‟

83

she asked.

„Oh, I can tell your ring‟, he answered. „It doesn‟t have

that nasty ring it does when clients want you. It more, sort

of, purrs,‟ so saying he purred down the phone to her.

Jean laughed; he could be funny when he wanted to be.

„Well for that, Thomas Green, you can pick me up tonight

at eight and take me out to dinner.‟ Jean could be bossy if

she wanted to be, but spoiled the effect by chuckling all

through the command. If it was a command.

„Yes, ma‟am!‟ Tom barked in his most military manner,

you could almost hear him saluting. „Ten hundred hours at

your at your house. Best bib and tucker to be worn, face

blacked, boots washed, swimming medals to be worn.‟ He

dropped the military mannerisms and said, „I love you to

distraction Jean, I can‟t think of anything else; when will

you marry me?‟

As usual, Jean ignored the proposal. Not to hurt Tom,

because she was very attracted to him, but because she

couldn‟t cope with it. Instead, she asked, „Where are we

going to go, Tom?‟

„The Golf Club,‟ was the unexpected reply.

Jean was impressed. She knew that, unless you had

some serious influence, getting a table at the newly re-

built Trentby Golf Club‟s restaurant was next to impossi-

ble.

„Are you sure, Tom? I mean I‟ve heard some fantastic

stories about that place, how you pay for breathing, and

the water‟s a pound a drop.‟

Thomas laughed, „All true‟, he replied, „Relax my dar-

ling; I have reserved a table for two on the balcony. The

most romantic spot in the area.‟

„If it doesn‟t rain,‟ Jean told him.

„That‟s what the screens are for,‟ she was told.

84

„Okay then! See you at eight,‟ Jean said, as she rang

off, giggling. Best bib and tucker, she said to herself.

Tastefully, but understatedly, sexy and the right amount of

jewellery. God bless her; that‟s what Lady Lucy would say

and she had an answer for everything. Now what can I

wear?

„Mick,‟ she shouted across the ragging shop from the

office. „I‟m going out for a few minutes.‟

She‟d wasn‟t disappointed. „Bring something back for

tea, I‟m starving,‟ was the reply, the one she‟d expected.

„Right, I‟ll be about an hour, and don‟t forget to collect

that stuff round the Slaughter House area!‟ So saying she

left for the shops.

Passing „Man‟s Best Friend‟ charity shop Jean decided

to see if they had anything in she could wear. You never

know, she thought to herself. There was nothing much on

the rails but she did have a rummage in the costume jew-

ellery box.

„Have you got another one of these, Randolph?‟ She

asked as she picked up a gold and lapis lazuli scarab

marked at 50p. „I‟ve seen one very like it recently.‟

Randolph Andover broke away from his daydream of

positively hordes of luscious lovelies on his computer and

took in the real world. This real world. Sort of.

„Only the one, Miss Grabble. That one‟s been around for

bit; but nobody seems to hang onto it for some reason.

Shame really, it‟s quite nice and colourful.‟ Then his brain

kicked into gear as he realised he‟d seen her all dolled up

for something last week and even dressed in jeans and a

floppy sweater, that she beat his fantasy computer girls

hands down when it came to the sexy stakes. She smelled

nice as well! Randolph had never thought of smell as a

factor in being sexy and wondered, briefly, if you could get

85

a computer screen to smell right.

„I think it would go nicely with that blue dress you wore

at the … erm... theatre last week. If you like, I can super-

glue a pin on the back. Be a bit extra, of course, for the

pin and the glue.‟

Jean thought she‟d seen that scarab before. It was

unlikely that there were two in the same town, so it proba-

bly was Lady Lucinda‟s, and she knew the story behind

it. I‟ll keep it to remind me of Lady Lucy, she decided.

„Okay Randolph, glue a pin on the back, please‟, she

said. „Would two quid be enough, do you think?‟

Randolph agreed that it would and did the necessary

work. This time totally failing to get his fingers glued to-

gether.

Later that evening, the weather was nice, the surround-

ings lived up to their reputation, the food was fantastic,

and, Jean, wearing the brooch, found, Thomas was a good

dancer. As she swung around the floor in his arms, she

felt safe and decided that, if he proposed again, she

would say, yes.

Back at the table, and to the shock of the other diners

on the terrace, he went down on his knees and proposed

to her once again.

Jean kissed him, softly, on the lips; their first kiss, and

said. „Thomas I‟ve thought about it and, the answer has to

be, „Yes, I will marry you.‟

At which point Thomas fainted. It took copious applica-

tions of champagne to bring him round enough to get the

ring out of his pocket and then amidst cheers from the

other diners he put it on her finger and kissed her again.

„It must be this lucky scarab that changed my mind,‟

86

she told him later as they strolled back to his car.

„Scarab?‟ Thomas asked in a bemused tone. „What

scarab is that?‟

„The one Lady Lucy brought back from Egypt in the

nineteen thirties,‟ she told him. „The one I‟ve got on my

belt as a buckle ornament. Look!‟

The one Lady Bluddschott‟s been looking for, thought

Thomas.

In the British Municipal Museum, a stray glint of

moonlight darting through the overhead windows in the

Egyptian Hall caught the face of the god Dumilla and the

eye of one of the guards watching on a TV monitor. „Blow

me down if that there statue don‟t appear to be smiling.

Never seen that before,‟ he said to his partner on shift.

„Marvellous what them old Egyptians could do with a lump

of rock, init?‟

„Clever them Pharaohs,‟ his partner replied. „Got any

coffee left in that flask?‟

Meanwhile in Trentby, Randolph was aware of a strange

sensation in his feet and lower limbs. The pavement did-

n‟t seem to be where it ought to be. He was bouncing on

spring filled heels. It was only five yards to the bakery

from the charity shop but it seemed to be miles away.

„Hello, Randy,‟ said a voice.

Randolph gulped. He knew that voice. He‟d known that

voice ever since play group at the Methodist Church Hall.

He‟d knocked her over at the Sunday school sport‟s day

and made her cry. He‟d pulled her hair and spat in her

pudding in primary school. He‟d called her fatty and cop-

87

ied her homework at the Trentby High School. He‟d played

hookie with his mates and gone to the pictures in Year 7

with her tagging along as Big-Lad Ferris‟s little sister.

That‟s what Sharlene Mountjoy had always been to him

up until now, Big-Lad Ferris‟s little sister ... the girl who

lived next door.

Randolph turned and smiled: was that a shiny glow ra-

diating round the Goth princess like in the planetary wars

on Vulongaria? (Or, more likely, simply the glare from the

bakery shop‟s neon sign reflecting off her nose ring and

eyebrow piercings.)

„You still tagged, then?‟ the black painted lips asked: it

was not a criticism.

Unable to form words, which were drying up in his

throat, Randolph nodded. How could he, a mere mortal,

speak in front of a naked princess? Not that she was na-

ked. But the sight of her perfect tattooed nakedness seen

through the eye-piece of the telescope was still imprinted

on his retina.

„Laters ...‟ she said, pushing passed him as she entered

the bakery.

„Laters ...‟ he mouthed, turning away and wandering off

down the street. It wasn‟t until he reached the Council Of-

fices that he realised, he was going entirely the wrong way

and hadn‟t bought Deirdre‟s doughnut selection.

„Randolph, what are you doing here?‟ said a voice. He

knew that voice too. „Why aren‟t you at work?‟

„Fetching doughnuts, mum,‟ he replied and fell happily

into step with her all the way back to Mountjoy‟s bakery,

glad to have someone with him who knew the way and

wouldn‟t let him come to any harm. His mum would be a

perfect excuse for being late back. Mums are great for ex-

cuses.

88

He had learned something this morning. Sharlene was

as desirable in the flesh, he started sweating again at this

point, as was her 3-D image on the small screen, and

when she spoke he was rendered mute, which must be a

super power he was previously unaware of, and his mum

liked her. She had said so when she pushed him out of

the cake shop drooling. Mums don‟t miss much, do they?

Perhaps that was why mum‟d invited her round for tea

on Thursday

Perhaps that was why mum‟d invited her round for tea

on Thursday.

Perhaps that was why mum‟d invited her round for tea

on Thursday.

His mind looping, Randolph deposited the tray of

doughnuts on the counter and wandered into the back

room entranced. Princess Angelikka was coming to tea on

Thursday. Barry would be so jealous, Barry would never

believe it. Who would have known, having real friends

could be such fun.

„Randolph, don‟t just stand there, put the kettle on,‟

yelled a voice. Ah well, back to the day job.

Barry‟s jaw dropped open.

„You‟re having a laugh. You‟ve got a date with Princess

Angelikka? The real one! Pull the other one, it‟s got bells

on.‟

„Mum‟s invited her to tea. She said yes.‟

„Just like that?‟

„No, not exactly. Mum asked her to bring her mum‟s

stuff round for a,‟ mumble mumble, „party.‟

„A what?‟ grinned Barry who knew what Mrs Mountjoy

was into, what with him having the telescope trained on

89

every room in their house in case the Princess was ever

into wandering around in the buff. This wasn‟t always

such a clever move as her brother, the weight-lifter, Big-

Lad Ferris, was in the habit of wandering around starkers

scratching his itches while searching for his boxers in the

washing basket. Often Barry had an eye-full of humon-

gous dangly bits he‟d rather not have had imprinted on his

retina for the rest of the evening. It wasn‟t all milk and

honey being a virtual artist.

Randolph‟s lips tightened into line as tight as a paper-

cut in best lamb‟s liver: „A Francine‟s Secret-Spring Party.‟

Barry exploded into fits of giggles, most unbecoming for

a manga warrior warlord. „I thought that was a girls-only

do. All those frills and fancies flashing about.‟

„It is,‟ grimaced Randolph really wishing he had kept his

big mouth shut.

„What room will they be using?‟ said Barry, retraining

the telescope.

„Oi,‟ said Randolph jumping up off the beanbag, „you

keep that lens away from my mum‟s conservatory. She is-

n‟t a forgiving sort of person.‟

Barry smiled. He had all the info he needed. The glass

roof of Mrs Andover‟s conservatory was no barrier to his

all-seeing eye. Thursday tea-time, all the great and the

good ladies of the estate would be peeling off to squeeze

their flabbiness into Francine Secret-Spring‟s lace and

wire corsetry. Manna from heaven. Good job he hadn‟t

confided in his new buddy that his latest acquisition was a

camera with a zoom so powerful it could read the writing

in Sharlene‟s diary if she was careless enough to leave it

open on her desk.

„Now, what have you got for me, today?‟ he asked,

changing the subject and waving a plain brown envelope

90

which wasn‟t as well stuffed as Randolph would have

liked. Randolph pulled a MBF carrier bag from under this

sweatshirt, „This is quite nice.‟

With trembling fingers Barry reached in and pulled out

a 1960s baby-doll nighty in pale pink satin trimmed with

black ostrich feathers... „OMG,‟ he murmured rubbing the

shininess between finger and thumb, „What a score,

mate. What a beauty.‟

The plain brown envelope changed hands and

Randolph toddled off down the stepladder from Barry‟s

attic lair feeling very pleased with himself. A few more de-

liveries like this one and his dream machine wouldn‟t be

such a distant prospect. Now all he had to do was work

out how to waylay Sharlene after the frilly-pants party and

before she went home. He‟d already offered to be a

bouncer and a waiter, which his ma was having none of ...

such a pity his ma didn‟t have another male interest in

her life.

Barry‟s ma had several. Yeah, Barry‟s ma was a Trentby

cougar, a very old be-whiskered cougar. Bet she had a

season ticket to Francine Secret-Spring parties. No, he

didn‟t want his ma to turn into a chubbier version of

Barry‟s old lady. But, a decent bloke with a good steady

job, who‟d take her out a lot and get her off his back, now

that was an interesting thought. He‟d give that idea a run

round the block and see what he could sort out.

Maxie, the treasure hunter as he liked to think of himself,

the police had another term that wasn‟t quite as pleasant,

lay pondering in his bed at his great Aunt Evadne‟s rather

tatty bungalow on the outskirts of Trentby, but there again

me and the Plod don’t seem to get along all that well. I

91

92

wonder why? I’ve never done anything illegal; well, noth-

ing that they could prove anyway.

Through the thin walls came the sounds of tins being

opened and pans rattled. Brekky? Already? It’s not seven-

o’clock for heaven’s sake. Still I suppose these country

folk have to get up early, don’t they? Must be something

in the blood I suppose. Hope I don’t catch it.

„Maxie, it‟s time for you to get up and dressed and

washed if you‟re going to start that research thing you

talked about last night. I‟ve got your kippers cooking

nicely so you‟ve got about fifteen minutes,‟ said the voice

of, „Seeing as how you‟re family, you can call me Eva‟,

from the kitchen.

Washing was one of those things Maxie did on high days

and holidays, or when he couldn‟t avoid it, but he sup-

posed that it would be a good idea; just this once. „Okay,

Eva, Be right out,‟ he answered.

Now kippers and Maxie had never crossed paths before,

however, he found that he quite liked them, once he‟d got

used to the idea of using a knife and fork to eat breakfast

instead of scarfing down a handful of cereals and a

mouthful of beer.

„What‟s your plans for today?‟ Evadne wanted to know.

„If you‟re researching that scarab thing, like you said last

night, then your best place to start is probably the public

library. I know they‟ve got all the Bluddschott papers „cos

there was an exhibition there last year celebrating the pur-

chase for the County Archive.‟

„All of them Eva?‟ Maxie said putting on his best „bright

researcher‟ voice. „I mean there must have been quite a

lot of them.‟

„Cost them a hundred and sixty thousand quid at auc-

tion, that I do know.‟

93

94

„A hundred and sixty thousand!‟ Maxie‟s voice screeched

a bit at the sum. He‟d never thought that pieces of paper

could be worth so much money.

„Yer. Cheap at the price too, they reckoned.‟ Came

around the production of the stubbing out of a nub end

and the lighting of another fag. „The archive people say

that it‟s a complete record from fourteen something or

other; right up to nineteen fifty.‟

Maxie was dumb struck; there‟d be TONS of stuff to read

and he wasn‟t fond of reading, not very good at it either

he admitted to himself. Reading wasn‟t what treasure

hunters did in the books he‟d „liberated‟ from his local li-

brary back home. He did intend to return them; one day,

so it was only borrowing, wasn‟t it?

„Now, the place to really start and get some clues about

what could have happened. It stands to reason they

wouldn‟t write down what they‟d nicked it from the Egyp-

tians, would they?‟ Evadne was now in full flow. „No way

they‟d write that down; no, the best idea is to talk to the

old folks down at the centre. There‟s nowt that they don‟t

know about that lot up at the hall, I‟ll bet.‟ A quick slurp of

her tea to moisten her tonsils and a deep drag on her fag

started Evadne off again.

„And, Maxie, don‟t wear that stupid vicar‟s collar thing. I

know you ain‟t no vicar. If you was your gran would have

been crowin‟ about it for years and she ain‟t said a dickey

bird. I don‟t know what you‟re up to, and don‟t want to

know neither, but clean shaven and smelling sweetly is

the way to go. Got it!‟

Maxie nodded. He could tell that the voice of experience

was talking here. Maybe Mad Great Aunt Evadne wasn‟t

as mad as the family thought.

95

Thursday teatime

„Mrs Andover, is that your Randolph?‟

Mrs A dropped the pair of purple-spotted, outsized la-

dies frilly things and hastened to the vertical blinds being

held ajar by her neighbour Mrs Mountjoy. She blinked in

disbelief. What was that daft son of hers up to now?

On the patio was Randolph balancing on the garden

seat holding the sunshade for the garden table and chairs

up above his head like a giant umbrella as if trying to

shade the conservatory roof from some invisible rain.

„Randolph, get down off there, immediately,‟ she

shouted. Of course, Randolph had his musical ears on

and couldn‟t hear a word she was saying, as his brain

cells were being bombarded by a Danish Mr Angry Person

with very loud drums and bass on full throttle.

Unfortunately, when Mrs A got her dander up, she usu-

ally took action. How could the chump show her up in this

unseemly fashion? Acting like a right idiot in front of the

ladies from the WI as they rummaged through Mrs Mount-

joy‟s steamy unmentionables being so nicely modelled by

Sharlene: such a nice girl despite appearances to the con-

trary and such a nice little baker, hadn‟t she made all the

fondant fancies?

Only as the conservatory doors were thrown open with

the violence only a cross mum can wield, Randolph real-

ised he had been spotted trying to shield the see-through-

glass conservatory roof from Barry‟s telescopic sight. At

which point he lost his footing on the rickety garden seat

as a chuckling gust of wind caught hold of the garden

brolly and tugged him towards the ornamental goldfish

pond. Randolph hadn‟t the sense to let go of the brolly.

The Splash! that followed was inevitable.

96

However, the gods do smile on those in the throes of

first love, and as Randolph sat in the pond he was rewarded

by the sight of his beloved Princess standing framed in

the conservatory doorway wearing the frilliest fuchsia

nighty in the history of the known world. As stinking pond

water slime embedded into his Mext boxers, Vi-Le 601s

and best Nuke trainers Randolph was transfixed by the

twirl of pink feathers as Sharlene was pulled inside by her

mam.

It was then, Randolph realised, that he wasn‟t alone in

the delicious unveiling of the charms of the girl of his

dreams, as a glint of sunlight caught the lens of Barry‟s

hidden attic telescope and twinkled. There really is no

such thing as a victimless crime, is there? thought

Randolph. Growing up a little, Randolph came to an un-

comfortable conclusion. He shouldn‟t be helping Barry. He

should be closing Barry down, or channelling his creativity

elsewhere, preferably through a route equally profitable.

It was at this point that Carol Andover striding over the

wreckage of her patio and garden pond prodded him with

the line prop, „You great dollop. You‟re just as useless as

your father,‟ letting him know in no uncertain terms what

an idiot she thought her son had turned out to be.

Dripping in confusion, as he rescued the outsized um-

brella from off the garage roof, Randolph considered the

insult, his mam must be cross if she mentioned the „f‟

word. The spectre of his missing dad was never men-

tioned.

„The Bluddschotts you say? What about them?‟ came

97

98

from 'Thin Woman' sitting across the table from Maxie at

the Centre‟s coffee morning get together. „They were a

funny lot to be sure. Lord Bluddschott, the old one not the

new one, that new one's neither use nor ornament, and

he's skint as well. No, Robert was the old one, he was an

archaeologist, when he was alive of course, and he was a

good bloke, even though he had some funny ideas. What

do you want to know about them?‟

Maxie explained, again, that he worked for the British

Municipal Museum and was doing some research into the

whereabouts of the Bluddschott scarab. It's not exactly a

lie. I do work for the British Municipal Museum, he told

himself, only not one of the research bits.

„Ha, you'd have to ask Reggie about that. Not much

chance of getting a word out of him, of course.‟ That

brought a titter out of the others around the table.

„I suppose,‟ said another, a man that Maxie had pegged

as „Baldy-locks‟ and either an ex-teacher, or Bank man-

ager, „that you could be referring to the late Lady Lucinda

and her scarab. Or, to be precise, the scarab that she was

supposed to have had in her early years, I suppose.‟

Maxie was all ears as Baldy-locks continued. „I believe it

was in the late nineteen thirties when it, ah-hem, came

into her possession. However, it's not been seen in the

last, oh, twenty years to my knowledge. Of course, if it is

found, it would be a part of the late Lady Lucinda's estate

and the property of the Bluddschott family. According to

Tim Toogood, no doubt you'll be meeting him in the course

of your research, it's not worth a lot, a few thousand at

most. Tim, when he puts his Doctor Toogood the Egyptolo-

gist hat on, says that it could be a fake and only worth a

few pence.‟

Maxie felt sat on. „A few pence?‟ he queried. „The Mu-

99

seum are prepared to pay up to twenty thousand for it,

that I do know. The provenance alone puts it into that

bracket.‟ Maxie, via Ms. Spur, knew a lot about prove-

nance. About how the right article, with the right kind of

supporting paperwork could be worth a hundred times

the price of one without, even if they were the same

things.

Maxie thought it was plain stone bonkers, but, knew

that that was the way it worked.

„That's another thing I came to have a look into.‟ Maxie

had thought it out over the last few hours, in case his plan

went all pear shaped all over him. For once he had an es-

cape plan in place. „We, the Museum that is, have some

of the documents on the various digs but probably not all

of them, that's what my boss thinks. I've got to do some

reading in the Bluddschott papers,‟ Maxie had found he

could 'do the academic waffle' with something like author-

ity.

„Please could you help me? Does anyone have any idea

of which time span I should be looking at? I could trawl

from the 1850s to the 1950s as start and finish points,

however, as the archive has only been partially indexed,

that will take me more time than I can really afford. It's

only a small grant you see and, although I'm currently liv-

ing with my Great Aunt Evadne, to eke it out you under-

stand, I'm severely limited as to a time scale. Any help

would be gratefully accepted and will be acknowledged in

the publication I'm going to produce.‟

„You're living in the same house as Smoking Mad

Evadne? You'll come out fully kippered young man. She

smokes far too much does Evadne.‟

Fluffy Cardigan from two around the table offered. „Stay

outdoors as much as you can is my advice.‟ That advice

100

got approving nods from around the table.

Thin Woman chipped in with, „I should say you should

concentrate on the period 1920 to 1942. That was the

time when the area was, relatively, free of wars and up-

sets for archaeologists to work in that part of the world.

Naturally you will need to look carefully at any Firman you

may find, as that will give you where they dug, and may

give you the names of any other European participants.‟

„Thank you, I'll do that,‟ Maxie replied; while he made a

mental note, What the devil's a firman when it's out.

„You're new at this modern history external research

thing, aren't you?‟ Thin Woman stated. „You're starting the

right way though. Keep it up young man and I can see you

having a good career in front of you.‟

Maxie had never been told he was GOOD at anything

and didn't know how to respond. „Er-mm ... Ta!,‟ he

started, and then recovered. „Thank you very much,

madam. I certainly hope so.‟

Thin Woman smiled at him and lost thirty years in the

action, Maxie could, vaguely, see that, once, she had

been a startlingly good-looking woman.

„Then 1920 to 1942 it shall be,‟ he declared as he

stood and thanked the people at the table paying particu-

lar attention to Thin Woman. She may be someone he

could use in future.

The 'Reading Room' at the local archive was warm, pleas-

ant and bright with comfortable chairs and desks, a far

cry from Maxie's expectation of dark, drear and dim. It

was more like the reading room at the British Municipal

Museum than anything he'd expected. His reader‟s room

card, issued when he got the job as part of the stuff he'd

been given, and hadn't bothered to read, got him a local

101

card without any problem.

The files, one file at a time, were delivered to his desk.

For the next three hours he spent more time reading than

ever before in his life.

Then, bingo, he found his first reference to, 'a scarab

blue and gold, soapstone, as type V but with an unusual

inscription', and a sketch of the item.

Got you! All I have to do is to find you, he said to him-

self. A photocopy of the page cost him fifty pence. Then

he left to become, A Real Treasure Hunter.

After a delightful evening with Tom, Jean went home to

bed. She lay there thinking about her coming marriage

and started to panic. There was so much to do and so lit-

tle time. It had to be a white wedding, of course with

bridesmaids, a best man, ushers, a wedding feast fit for a

king, a wedding dress fit for a princess. Should she wear a

veil? She couldn‟t decide. She would think of that later.

Who should she invite? She thought about the guest list,

who to invite, who to avoid? Should that be whom to in-

vite, whom to avoid? She couldn‟t decide. Did it really

matter? Yes, of course it did. Everything had to be perfect.

How much to spend? It was difficult. She couldn‟t decide.

Who would print the invitations? What if the grammar was

wrong on the cards? Would Tom be mad? She couldn‟t de-

cide. Who would do the catering? She couldn‟t decide.

Should she colour her hair? Change her hairstyle? Go on

a diet? Get her legs waxed? Book the church? Talk to the

vicar tomorrow? Book a photographer? Book the wedding

cars? Book the florist? She couldn‟t decide and her head

was spinning. She felt like running away, cancelling the

wedding, screaming, No! „No! No! at the top of her voice.

102

Banging her head against the wall, taking a handful of

sleeping tablets. She desperately needed to sleep. To

sleep perchance to sleeeeee.. z z z z z z z…

Often, when she was doing her Open University course,

Jean would have a problem that seemed insoluble, but after

a good night‟s sleep, the solution was clear and the prob-

lem was no longer a problem. Perhaps that would happen

as she slept tonight… She hoped it would … In her mind‟s

eye she pictured herself… desirable and lovely in a really

unusual wedding gown, made entirely of pink roses; a

dream of a dress; a midsummer‟s night‟s dream of a

dress. As if by magic her wedding day had been sorted out

as she slept.

She was the proud possessor of something old, some-

thing new, something borrowed and something blue. The

pretty scarab brooch, she wore in her hair complimented

her pretty blue eyes and fitted all the superstitious re-

quirements of the day. Four problems neatly solved by one

small Egyptian nick-knack. Why had she bothered wrack-

ing her brain about the wedding organisation when it

could be so easily fixed?

The church service was really delightful even though

the vicar was wearing a wet suit. Nobody thought this was

strange and everyone enjoyed the joke when he began

the service with, „Dearly beloved, we are gathered on this

sad occasion to mourn the passing of Jean and Tom…

Everybody held their breath until the vicar said, brightly,

„Only joking!‟ and then the guests laughed hysterically.

They were even more amused when the vicar told Tom

there was no need to kiss the bride, as he would do that

onerous chore for him. There was such a happy atmos-

phere in church and that continued in the reception room

at the Trentby Twelve Star Hotel. The table was set

103

thoughtfully with the staff of the „Puss in Boots‟ charity

shop down one side and, facing them the staff of Mans‟

Best Friend.

At the top table were Tom Green and Jean Grabble

who, since the vicar‟s kiss, had become Mr and Mrs Tho-

mas James Green. How she had enjoyed that lingering

kiss! A holy moment she would never forget. The best man

was Jean‟s brother, Mick, and instead of making the usual

boring speech he acted out each word as if he were play-

ing Charades. Unsurprisingly, the speech took an abnor-

mally long time to deliver, but the guests who were still

awake, had great fun guessing.

Tom‟s sister‟s, Megan and Barbara, were bridesmaids

and someone had thoughtfully seated the girls between

the town‟s two cross-dressers, Police Constable Smithers

and the Honourable Jason Fortesque-Chumleigh. They

drooled over the bridesmaid‟s stylish outfits and it was en-

dearing to hear the two men begging the girls to swap

their wedding clothes with them.

There was a slight hitch at the last moment when the

wedding cars from Trentby Cabs turned into pumpkins,

but almost immediately colourful hobbyhorses replaced

them. What a splendid spectacle the wedding party made

as they trotted happily on their wooden steeds from the

church to the Trentby Twelve Star Hotel.

A long beautifully laid table awaited them. The seating

plan said,

CATS ON THE RIGHT... DOGS ON THE LEFT.

Cynthia Saunders, Manageress of the Puss in Boots,

led her team to their places. Timothy Toogood, volunteer

and Egyptologist, owner of 17 demanding cats, tip-toed

behind. Then came Cyril, Dylis, Iris and Evadne.

Evadne had made a valiant effort with the table deco-

104

rations. Each place setting had a sweet knitted cat beside

it. How was Evadne to know that half way through the

meal those woolly cats would come to life and run amok?

Her grandson, or nephew or some such, Maxie, must have

anticipated something like this because he had brought a

loaded water pistol with him. He helped the waiters deal

with this unwelcome distraction and, apart from a few

scratches and splashes, no real harm was done.

On the opposite side of the table the Mans‟ Best

Friend staff were led to their places by Michael Grabble.

Following him were Rosemary Thorne, Randolph Andover

and Danny Smithers.

There was just one worry as Jean glanced round the

table, an empty seat. Surely nobody in Trentby would re-

fuse to join in their joyful celebrations. Who was missing?

Jean pondered for a few moments and looking round the

table realised that Colonel Lionel Bluddschott OBE wasn‟t

there. In his place sat an enormous Nile crocodile called

Reggie, its front feet resting rudely on the starched white

tablecloth. Jean went over to reprimand the unpleasant

creature and it coughed violently, vomiting up a rather

slimy person. It was Colonel Lionel Bluddschott OBE and

although the poor man had been dead for some time,

once he dried his face on a clean napkin, he was com-

pletely recognisable, and true to form, he ordered a dou-

ble brandy.

The wedding had been a triumph and, to Jean‟s relief,

she hadn‟t had to organise a thing. She stretched as she

woke the next morning. The phone was ringing. It was

Tom. Jean was angry, „I haven‟t got time to talk to you,‟

she snapped. „I‟ve got a wedding to organise …

To the amazement of Marge Potts and the dismay of The

105

Countess of Trentby, the next day Maximilian Crest, a re-

searcher from the British Municipal Museum, presented

himself at the side entrance of Bluddschott Hall.

Maxie was very pleased with the credentials he'd fabri-

cated for himself. The British Municipal Museum paper

was authentic, he'd 'allowed a few sheets' to fall into his

work bag one evening, and his imitation of the signature

was pretty good; even if he did say so for himself.

'The Bluddschott Mummy, yes I know about that,‟ The

Countess said. „But, I'm sorry to have to tell you, that this

scarab you're looking for is something that went missing a

few years ago. It's such a pity as we could do with the

money it would fetch at auction. By the time the death du-

ties are paid the estate is basically bankrupt you see, Mr

Crest.‟

Maxie pressed her to talk about it and showed her the

photocopy he had of the site report.

„That's the one, Mr Crest. My husband‟s Aunt Lucinda

kept it in her jewellery box for some time, however, when

she passed away we couldn't find any trace of it.‟ There

was more than a trace of bitterness in her voice as she

continued.

„For that matter we couldn't find a lot of things that we

have evidence for. Gold coins that are missing, only 200

out of 423 that were inventoried previously have been

found. That scarab, some rubies and emeralds in various

settings, possibly a few diamonds, that kind of thing. You

know the sort of thing I mean.‟ Owing to some very spe-

cialised, not illegal but definitely unusual, training Maxie

knew exactly what she meant.

Rubies, emeralds and diamonds were all expensive,

saleable if you knew the right people, glittery rocks to him

and here was this old trout acting as if they were nothing

106

but an assortment of kids plastic building blocks.

„I hope you have the rest of the bequest securely under

lock and key, Your Ladyship?,‟ Maxie asked.

„No problem there, Mr Crest. Would you like to see

them, there may be a clue of some sort that will help you

in your research.‟

Maxie expressed pleasure in the idea and was taken

into a small room where the jewellery was laid out on a

table. „This was Lady Lucinda's dressing room,‟ the Count-

ess explained. „Even if the house weren't effectively a cas-

tle there are only the two small windows and a strong lock

on the door you see. No chance of them being stolen from

here.‟

Maxie took one look at the lock and almost burst out

laughing. Strong lock? You got to be joking Countess, he

said to himself, 'I could open that thing with a nail file in

ten seconds and as for this being a castle! I could be up

on the roof and inside in two minutes; if I was that way in-

clined. The only thing that's stopping me is fencing the

stuff.

‘As a matter of interest, Your Ladyship,‟ Maxie couldn‟t

help asking, „what is the appraised value of these in the

estate?‟

„We're awaiting the official figures at present, Mr Crest,

but, I understand that it's about £200,000 in total. How-

ever, there is a problem with the actual ownership of

some of the better pieces. Some may be owned by a firm

that Lady Lucinda set up to give her some cash for re-

pairs. A complex legal thing you understand. I'm afraid I

don't know the ins and outs of it; that's what lawyers are

for, isn't it?‟

Maxie thought that lawyers were there to keep you out

of the nick and do things about selling houses, but he

107

nodded anyway. „Tricky stuff, the law,‟ he agreed as they

left the room.

Marge Potts, however, had heard about him on the grape-

vine; she collared him as he left. „There's nothing quicker

than the old biddy's net,‟ she'd told him. „That scarab, Mr

Crest, the last I saw of it anyway, was on a coat that went

to one of the charity shops. It's probably been sold on by

now. No luck there I‟m afraid. Ohh and give your Aunt

Evadne my regards will you; and tell her she's still the

Bess from Slaughter-house Yard that I went to school

with.‟

This was another side of Evadne that Maxie knew noth-

ing about.

Marge went on, „It's far quicker to go down the drive and

out through the front gate; as long as you keep away from

the lake that is. Reggie's on the prowl at this time of day

but you'll be safe enough on the drive.‟

„Reggie? I've heard about this Reggie. What's the prob-

lem.‟

„Nothing really. But a full sized crocodile can run fast for

about twenty yards or so. As long as you don't go down to

the lakeside you'll be as safe as houses.‟

„A crocodile? You're having me on!‟

„Suit yourself, lad. But don't say you ain't been told,‟

Marge said as she closed the door behind him.

Maxie didn't believe that Reggie existed, that was okay

with Reggie as he viewed Maxie as a walking meal as he

lay in wait in the shallows.

„An old log that looks a bit like a croc. No problem there,

but what an idea to put about. Better than a guard dog

any day.‟ Maxie marvelled as he jumped down the slight

bank to stand on the shoreline by the boat house. He no-

108

ticed the temple folly on the island. If he wanted to hide a

cache of illicit gems he knew exactly where he‟d have hid-

den them.

Then there was a brief flurry of activity that saw Maxie,

easily, breaking the standing high jump, long jump and

100 yards sprint records as he hurtled towards the gate

yelling blue murder.

Reggie gave up the chase after a few yards and wad-

dled, grunting with disappointment, back to his inter-

rupted nap. It looked like a fish dinner again.

Safely back at the house Maxie told Evadne about his

narrow escape, hardly dramatising it at all.

„Serves you right,‟ Evadne said, as she lit up another

cigarette from the stub end of the one she was busy inhal-

ing. „Have a fag. It‟ll calm your nerves.‟

Jean found she quite liked kissing Thomas, so, after a

short pause to catch her breath, she said. „You know, Tho-

mas, I could quite get to like this being engaged business.

It‟s nice, safe and exciting at the same time. Definitely a

more-ish sort of thing, something that we need to practice

though. We should practice; a lot!‟

So saying she moulded herself to Thomas and proceeded

to practice. If Thomas objected to the idea he kept it firmly

to himself as, seemingly enthusiastically, he joined in the

practice session.

„Sweetheart, we need to get a move on if you're to meet

my family in half an hour,‟ Thomas said some little while

later.

Jean pushed Thomas gently away and towards his car

saying, „Come on slow coach, it's about time we were mov-

ing; so let's get the show on the road!‟

109

After arrival at the Green's house Jean was introduced

to the family by Tom saying. „This is my fiancée, Miss Jean

Grabble BA, a partner and the Chief Accountant in Grab-

ble and Sons (Recycling) Ltd.‟ He then took her around

the room introducing her to everybody.

„Jean, these are my sisters Megan, usually called Meg,

and Barbara, usually called Babs.‟

They both waved and said „Hi Jean.‟

Thomas continued, „My mother,‟ Jean shook hands with

Mrs Green

„My Father,‟ Jean shook hands again.

„And my Grandfather,‟ another handshake, grandfather

had a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face.

„We've met before, Miss Grabble,‟ he said. „You won't

remember it, of course, you were far too young to remem-

ber anything.‟

Jean was taken somewhat aback, and then asked.

„When would that be, Mr Green?‟

„At your Baptism. Let's see, properly it's Jeanette, then

it's Elspeth, after your grandmother, and Mary, after your

other grandmother, if my memory is correct. I was in the

RAF with your Grandfather William at one time and he in-

vited me to the service. I'm afraid we got rather drunk in

celebration together that night. That was, let me see...

about 20 years ago.‟

He turned to Thomas. „Tom you've got a good lass here,

one I'd be very proud to welcome into the family; if she'll

have you that is. Look after her, she's a gem.‟

Picking up a glass from a side table, he raised it to Jean

and said. „I propose a toast to Jean Elspeth Mary and Tho-

mas. May they have every happiness for many years.‟

There was a chorus of approval and a whisper when

Tom hugged her. „You're in his good books, my darling

110

Jean. He's never done anything like that before! I wonder

what the story behind it is?‟

Jean didn't have a clue either.

Dinner was an occasion for light banter, laughter, and

good food. True to Thomas's prediction, Babs and Meg did

get Jean to one side for a brief girly period and came away

giggling.

‟When will you marry me, Jean?‟ Tom asked. „We can

have the wedding any time you like after midnight. I went

out and got a special license when we got engaged and

I‟m sure I can get somebody to conduct the service at

short notice.‟

Jean turned away and opened the house door, then

turned and gave him a thoughtful kiss. „Soon, very soon,

she replied. „What you mean, Tom, is that you can get

somebody to conduct the ritual at short notice. Make that,

ohh, the day after tomorrow for the ceremony. But, our

real and actual wedding is going to be tonight; in the next

hour, and I want a lo-o-ong, slo-ow and utterly delightful

wedding, Thomas. If it doesn‟t take until at least dawn to

„get properly married’, say two or three times.‟

So saying she pulled him through the door slamming it

behind her.

The next morning, freshly showered and dressed only in

bathrobes, they picked up the trail of discarded clothing in

the hallway, had a cup of coffee and went and ‘got mar-

ried’ all over again.

Meanwhile in Bluddschott Hall: „Lionel, if we are to bal-

ance the budget. If we are going to have anything like a

reasonable standard of living, then you will have to give

up something!‟ Annabelle, Countess of Trentby, told her

111

spouse. „Either that, or get a position, or a directorship, or

something on a quango, that pays a decent salary.‟

Lionel, obviously, didn't like the idea of working for a liv-

ing any more than he liked budgetary restrictions. „If there

are any decent positions open for someone in my posi-

tion, dear, I would, naturally, apply for them. I suppose...

yes, I suppose my best bet is to get onto the old Regimen-

tal network and see what, if anything's, on offer.‟

„Hmm.‟ Annabelle wasn't at all sure about that, but she

wasn't the daughter of a food products millionaire for

nothing. She knew a negotiating position when she saw

one. „I suppose, that that will have to do for a start. The

other thing, and one that you can do immediately, is stop

drinking in an evening. The wine merchant‟s bill alone is

more than 20% of the household budget and,‟ she

thumped her desk for emphasis, „it has got to come

down!‟

„A chap is entitled to the odd little tipple in an evening,

dear.‟ Lionel protested. „It calms me for the night, helps

me sleep; you know that.‟

„An odd LITTLE tipple is acceptable, Lionel, half a bottle

or more of three star brandy every night is more than an

odd little tipple. From now on you're to limit yourself to

one double per night.‟ Her pencil came up and ticked off

an item on her list of trim able expenses.

„Now! There are some other expenses that I need to talk

to you about. The Golf Club and that Man's Best Friend

Charity shop are examples.‟

Lionel just had to come to the defence of his two main

escapes from Annabelle and The Hall. „My dear, my activi-

ties at MBF don't really cost us anything you know. Any

moneys I do spend are reimbursed at the month‟s end, as

you know. As for the Golf Club. That's a bit different. You

112

know that's a requirement for people in our position. We

must show the flag mustn't we? Besides which; if I'm go-

ing to find a paid position then keeping an ear to the

ground up there will be crucial.‟

The Countess wasn't sold on that idea either, but had to

agree, that he had a point. „Very well, Lionel, however, the

one drink a day rule applies at the Golf Club as well. Not

one there, and one here, and another one somewhere

else. We just CANNOT afford large bills coming in.‟

Lionel had a thought. It wasn't often he did, so he usu-

ally acted without really thinking all the way through. „My

dear, we know a lot of stuff that Aunt Lucy left us has

gone missing. If we could find that, then, instead of being

penniless we'll be able to live how we want.‟

Annabelle shook her head. „As usual you're too late,

Lionel. We've already looked all over the estate. That's

where and when we found those 200 gold coins. I'm sure

you remember those metal detectorists people who could-

n't find their backsides with both hands and a map, and

that detestable old woman with a couple of wire coat

hangers who found almost all of it!‟

„Ahha but I'm not thinking of looking outside,‟ Lionel re-

plied. „We haven't had a good look inside the hall. Lucy

was basically confined to the house in the last year or so;

so it stands to reason that she's hidden stuff inside the

hall. All we've got to do is find it!‟

Annabelle indicated that she wasn't sold on that idea

either.

„I'm going to start at the top of the house and search

every room until I do find the missing jewellery and stuff.‟

Lionel was getting enthusiastic which, as Annabelle

knew, was a dangerous sign. „I hope you don't damage

anything, Lionel. Remember the Hall isn't ours, it belongs

113

to the Trust, if you do any damage then we've got to repair

it and that could cost a lot of money.‟

„My dear, I wasn't thinking of using a hammer and

chisel to find it.‟ That was an outright falsehood; he'd

planned on doing just that; with a good sized crowbar as a

back-up tool for the fine work.

„A good look round,‟ he continued. „Maybe tapping a few

panels in the library and in here the study, some careful

work in the passageways. Asking Mrs Potts if she‟d noticed

anything unusual in Lucy's last couple of years, things like

that. Detective work really. Nothing to damage the fabric

at all.‟

„Start in the cellars, Lionel,‟ his wife instructed. „Lucy ob-

viously had a thing about cellars. I believe she used to

take that young Grabble fellow down there quite frequently.

No doubt she had some perversion about young men and

dark places.‟

Annabelle knew about that sort of thing; she had one

similar. A woman had her needs after all and Lionel was-

n't up to much in that department.

Not, of course, that she indulged in it ... well, not often ...

the budget wouldn't stand it.

Torch in one hand and riding crop in the other. „To tap the

walls to see if they sound hollow, dear,‟ he'd explained; his

service pistol in the pocket of his floppy jacket, just in

case an opportunity arose to remove Annabel from the

equation, wasn't mentioned; Lionel, and a tin of penetrat-

ing oil, won their fight with the lock and went down the

'Butler‟s Stairs' into the cellars.

„I'll be jiggered!‟ Lionel exclaimed when the flick of an

ordinary light switch turned on banks of fluorescent tubes

114

and revealed brick built arches containing rack after rack

of dusty wine bottles. „There's got to be a few thousand

quid‟s worth of liquid gold in here. Those gold coins didn't

disappear at all. That crafty madam turned it into an in-

vestment in wine. Aunt Lucy; I take back half of the things

I said about you!‟

Prowling the racks; not daring to touch anything and

break the spell, noting the names chalked on the frames.

Du Pape, Cliquot, Vermille, Rhine, Rhone, Oporto and

other great names as well as some he didn't recognise.

Then 'Napoleon' jumped into his view. „I wonder what

you are, you darlings,‟ he murmured as he reverently with-

drew a bottle from the rack, gently wiped the dust from it

and read the label. „1896? A whole bottle of 1896! The

last time one of these came up for auction it fetched six

thousand and I've got,‟ he quickly counted, „TWENTY TWO

bottles. That's one hundred and thirty two thousand

pound in my hands.‟ He did a little dance of joy in the

aisle.

Prowling the racks to see what other 'liquid' money was,

as it where, lying there undiscovered, he spotted a door to

another cellar. „Shut and locked and from the looks of it,

no key on the ring for that lock,‟ he said to himself after

trying them all. „Now where would the old darling hide the

key so that she and her toyboy could get at it easily? It's

got to be around here somewhere, and not too far from

the door either.‟

After a frantic search he found it under a bottle. The

lock worked without any fuss. The interior was disappoint-

ing. It was a dusty school room.

True it had a dust sheet covered day bed against one

wall but it was definitely a school room. The table had a

pile of books on it and a couple of chairs against it: there

115

were piles of paper lying on the 'Mend it Badly Yourself'

bookshelves and a blackboard that had a series of squig-

gles which could have been a map and badly drawn birds

still showing on the face. No sign of any salacious activity

at all. Lionel was disappointed. „Why a school room

though, Lucinda,‟ he asked the shade of his Aunt. „And,

where have you hidden the cash?‟

Bluddschott Hall library:

„A hundred thousand Annabelle. A hundred thousand!‟

Lionel said as he waltzed about the study. „All our money

worries are over!‟

Annabelle was a little more sanguine. „We've got to sell

it first, Lionel. Don't get too excited until the cheque's in

the bank. Then we have to argue with the tax people,

they‟re bound to demand some of it. Capital Gains Tax or

some such.‟

Lionel was deflated. „Righty-ho then, dear. I'll have an-

other look in the cellar. There's a lot of cellars down there

that I haven't even started on yet.‟

„Good idea, Lionel. You do that and I'll get onto the wine

merchant and get them to send somebody around to ap-

praise the wine cellar contents. It could be that those bot-

tles are our salvation.‟ She smiled at him. Lionel had seen

that smile before, it meant that somebody was going to

have to do some serious work, and he was the only per-

son available.

‟While you're down there have another look around in

that school room. There could be a clue in there some-

where. You know Lucy's interests better than anybody

else, for all we know she could have written the hiding

place down in those ancient Egyptian hieroglyphic things

116

117

she was so fond of. Do some drawings; get some pictures

of things so that we can check.‟

Lionel went off to see Mrs Potts to borrow a camera.

„It's very simple to operate, Sir Lionel,‟ she said. „You just

point it at whatever it is you want to photograph, make

sure you've got all of it in the picture frame that appears

when it's switched on, then, you press this button here!‟

Although she was doing a childlike 'Point and Show' Mrs

Potts wasn't at all sure of how much was going in between

his lordship‟s aristocratic ears.

„To get the hang of it why don't you take some pictures

in the kitchen? It does take a bit of practice. Once you're

happy then you can use it. I'll need it back tomorrow

though. The next batch of visitors has been booked for the

'Bluddschott Hall Tour' and it's my turn to be the guide.‟

Lionel wasn't at all happy about this, but the monthly

tour was a part of the Trust‟s conditions of occupancy so

he couldn't argue. He cheered up as the thought crossed

his mind that a part of the tour was a drink and a sand-

wich in the main hall, and the Trust always put plenty on

the trays.

„I think I'm going to be available for this tour, Mrs Potts,‟

he said. „Meet the owner was always a part of it with Lady

Lucinda, wasn't it? I feel it's only right that I, or the Count-

ess if she's about, should continue the tradition. Please

put out another glass for me, Mrs Potts, and I'll mingle at

the end of the tour.‟

What Mrs Potts thought about it she kept to herself but

said, „Another glass for you, and, one for the Countess I

think you mean, Sir Lionel? Madam has already told me

that she'll be available.‟

„Right you are then Mrs Potts.‟ He was a bit disap-

pointed; with Annabelle in the hall a quick snort or six was

118

out of the question, two was the limit. „Now, how much do

films for this camera cost? I'm going to be taking a lot of

pictures and I need to get plenty of film for the project.‟

Mrs Potts laughed. „You are a joker, Sir Lionel. Film in-

deed! You don't use film in this type of camera. It's a digi-

tal and will hold about two hundred pictures before you

need to bother about it running out of space for them.‟

As she thought, Sir Lionel was hopeless. He had the at-

tention span of a gnat on hard drugs and all the co-

ordination of a soft rubber hat rack. It took the rest of the

morning but, eventually, he got the hang of it.

„Right, got it! Now for some serious stuff,‟ he said as he

left for his mysterious errand down in the cellar. There

Lionel photographed everything that could possibly show

some sign of writing. Even the central heating boiler found

its way into the photo shoot session.

„Doctor Timothy Toogood! That's the man I'm going to

see,‟ he told Annabelle sometime later. „He's the Egyptol-

ogy expert around here, or so I'm told. If anybody can rec-

ognise these hiero-thingy's it'll be him.‟

„Good afternoon, I'm Lionel Bluddshott, The Earl of

Trentby and I'd like to see Dr. Toogood. I'm told he works

here,‟ he said giving a huge wink to Cynthia the woman

behind the counter at the Puss in Boots Charity shop.

„Good afternoon, Sir Lionel. If you'd like to come

through to the back I'll ask him if he'll see you,‟ his mis-

tress replied, not at all affected by his lordship‟s current

weirdness. „He's at the rear of the top floor so it will take a

few minutes to find him. With your work at Man's Best

Friend you'll know how difficult it is to keep stock in good

condition. Tim's working on that problem at the moment.‟

119

Once into the office she turned and berated him. „You

utter idiot, Lionel! How many times do you have to be told

not to come here under any circumstances. The Earl of

Trentby and the Manageress of a Charity Shop in a sexual

relationship, what that would do to my reputation is be-

yond belief. What were you thinking: if you were thinking

at all?

Lionel was taken aback at the totally unfounded attack.

„But, Cynthia my dear darling, I really have come to see

this Toogood fellow,‟ he protested. „He‟s the local Egyptian

expert and I‟ve got some pictures I‟d like him to see. They

could tell us where to look for the missing cash.‟

Then a crafty thought slid into his mind. „If I'm right and

find the lost money, and the other stuff that Lucy squir-

relled away, it solves all our problems. Don‟t you see?‟

Mollified but not completely satisfied with his answer

she wrapped herself around him and gave him a quick

kiss.

„Wait here, Lionel,‟ she instructed. „I‟ll go and get that

clot Toogood, maybe something good will come out of it

after all.‟

Tim Toogood was dressed in his usual lack of style.

Glaring orange flip-flops held together with parcel tape

and bits of string really didn‟t go with the dark grey cord

trousers and a green frilly shirt. The pictures on the cam-

era got his attention though.

„Get me some proper pictures of these,‟ he said point-

ing to a number of frames on the camera. „I really cannot

be expected to give you an opinion with this sort of pic-

ture. Why haven't you got a proper drawing or a good pho-

tograph?‟ Tim was a bit testy when his authority could be

in question. „Incompetence I suppose. Go away and get

me a decent size of picture! When you come back I'll ex-

120

pect clear sharp images and a down payment of £50 in

cash.‟

Tim may have been a bit woolly when it came to daily

living with his cats but he knew that, basically, the market

value of a professional opinion was whatever you can get

away with. In addition, he knew that it was no good trust-

ing the value of the word of Lionel. Cash or nothing was

going to be his standpoint.

Cynthia came to the rescue of her lover. „I can print out

Sir Lionel's pictures, Tim. Will that be good enough?‟

„Firstly we'll see what sort of fumble fisted excuse for a

photographer it was who took them.‟ Tim replied, still in a

testy mood. „From what I can see I'd say that it's going to

be difficult to find one without a finger over the lens or

some such idiotic fault.‟

Ten minutes later: the till was £50 lighter in cash, £50

heavier on a cheque signed by Lionel, the cash was in

Tim‟s wallet, and a pile of pictures was lying in the print-

ers out tray.

Skimming through them, Tim said things such as.

„Useless. Out of focus. Useless. Camera shake. Useless.

The fool's got his finger in the way,‟ and threw more than

half into the wastebasket.

„Now that's interesting,‟ was the comment on four.

Those he concentrated on.

„Lionel, or Colonel, or whatever it is you call yourself,

these are good and I can make sense of them. The price

for a proper translation is £200; however, I will give you a

preliminary one, a draft as it were, for the £50 you've al-

ready paid me.‟

Lionel, smarting under the various: „incompetents‟,

'idiotic' and 'fools', that had been thrown around in last

short while, said „That should be good enough to get me

121

started, Dr. Toogood. I'll need something to report to free

up the cash for the translation.‟

Putting on his best lecturer voice, Tim read out the first

few characters. „The first line is clear enough, it says;

'Those, or all, who disturb the repose of the gods'. The

second line and third lines are indistinct but it's some-

thing like; take care or possibly beware of something

called the guardian of Dumilla, then something about

honour, dentition, and the family. They aren't drawn too

well and some of the signs are out of context. Is that any

help?‟

Lionel seized onto some words and said to himself. 'The

gods? That could be something to do with that folly on the

island, that's supposed to be an Egyptian god of some

kind. It could be called Dumilla I suppose. Take care; well

it's falling down so that makes sense. The honour and

family bits I don't understand. The dentition, too difficult.

Get Annabelle to see what she can find out.'

„Thank you Dr. Toogood,‟ he said aloud. „Please keep

the photographs and work on them when you can. I'll get

the cash to you when the estate is finalised.‟

Tim Toogood wasn't at all sure that the £200 would be

found but said nothing. „I‟ll get back to the top stock room

then, Cynthia. There's been a leak, only a small one, in

the roof that needs some attention from the outside. I've

put a bucket under it for now but it's going to need a

roofer to fix it properly.‟ So saying he left the room.

„Does that solve the puzzle?‟ Cynthia wanted to know.

„Possibly, Cynthia. It's a clue that says I should be look-

ing on the island in the lake.‟ Lionel was so taken by the

answers he had received that he upset her by failing to

give her more than a single goodbye kiss on the cheek.

„How?‟ Lady Annabelle asked as she entered the boat-

122

house, „Can you possibly fail to get a boat into the water?‟

In answer, Lionel pointed to the remains of the punt.

„That came apart in my hands as I tried to get it into the

water, Annabelle. Those planks in the water over there

were, until I tried to move it, a rowing boat. Then, it not so

much sank as became that floating pile of soggy firewood.

I'll have to find another way.‟

„What about the underground passage? Where does

that start!‟ Annabelle asked in her, 'The Countess is not

amused', manner.

„That? Oh, that‟s a silly story, my dear. When great

grandfather built the original folly, not the one that‟s there

now, he put it about that there was a secret passage but

there never was. All „you‟ need is a pair of rubber boots

and you can walk across on the underwater stepping-

stones. I did it a few times when I was younger.‟

Annabel‟s nose wrinkled at the word „you‟.

„What‟s to stop „you‟ doing it again now, Lionel?‟

„I don‟t know if the stones are still there, my dear. Lucy

may have had them pulled up or they could have fallen

into the lake.‟

„Find out, Lionel. FIND OUT!‟ When she gave that sort of

order there was no gainsaying her. Crocodile, or no croco-

dile, he was going across to the island.

Fingering his old army pistol in the pocket of his tweeds

Lionel nodded meekly and found some old Wellies in the

rear of the boathouse. Clumping along lakeside, he

stepped, gingerly, onto the first stepping stone, felt

around with his foot, and using all his concentration,

found the second, the third, fourth, fifth, sixth and sev-

enth. The eighth wasn‟t there; but he didn‟t find that out

until it was far too late.

All the splashing and clumping had attracted the atten-

123

tion of Reggie who decided this could be lunch. When he

saw the portly figure struggling in the water Reggie went

into hunting mode, swam quietly up to it and gave it a

knock with his tail. There was a yell and lunch arrived, de-

livered right into his teeth before Lionel could get even

one shot off.

These fearsome sets of dentition worked only the one

way. If something went in it didn‟t come out again.

Annabelle stood on the bank watching circles of bub-

bles popping until all was calm once again. „Hmm,‟ she

said, „I suppose that means that I‟ll have to wear mourn-

ing for a little while and black never suits me. I wonder ...

that nice Mr Grabble ... I bet he‟ll know somebody who

can shoot that crocodile for me? I‟ll drop around there to-

night, I‟m sure he‟ll be a great comfort to a grieving

widow. Although a grieving abandoned wife is probably a

better option to plump for, thinking about it. Less taxing ...

less death duties ... less complications all round.‟

Tom & Jean‟s wedding

The Church of the Bleeding Heart, Trentby Minster, was

getting crowded, even the short notice hadn‟t stopped

many of the local legal professionals from turning up, not

to mention a few who looked to them to keep them inside

the bars they preferred, and outside the bars they de-

served.

After all, it wasn‟t every day that an up-and-coming

member of the legal profession married into the burgeon-

ing recycling business. There were a few who speculated,

quietly, that it might be a good thing to keep a weather

eye on the two firms.

Conflict of interest and all that? Hmm? Not with the old

chap in charge! He’ll keep it private as sure as eggs are

124

eggs. Going public on the other side maybe, unlisted of

course, could be a few shares going spare. Something to

keep in mind old chap, nod’s as good as a wink and all

that!

Tom was busy with his last minute preparation, but not

busy as Jean was with hers.

„Meg are you sure that this dress will stay on?‟ Jean had

asked Tom‟s sisters, Megan and Barbara to be her brides-

maids, and they‟d spent the last 36 hours running around

getting dresses altered and generally in a tizzy.

„Of course, Jean. You don‟t think I‟d let my favourite sis-

ter-in-law go up the aisle in something that was going to

fall off, do you?‟ Megan replied. „I know it feels a bit like it

is but it‟ll stop on okay, as long as you don‟t try running in

it. But Tom‟s not going to run away from you, not while

you‟re wearing that anyway! Throw you over his shoulder

and run away with you is much more likely.‟

Babs passed her a roll of double-sided sticky tape. „This

is what you need, Jean. If you put some of this in the right

places not only won‟t it fall off, it‟ll take you and Tom

some time to get you out of it; and that could be some

really good fun.‟ Babs, ever the organiser, said, „Have you

got everything Jean? You know; Something Old, something

New, something Borrowed and something Blue.‟

„Something old and something blue, yes, my lucky

scarab. That‟s very old and very blue at the same time.‟

She showed them. „Something borrowed? Our dresses are

hired so that‟s borrowed, and something new?‟ She

thought for a second or so, „Shoes! We‟ve all got new

shoes. That‟s it, all the four.‟

They all looked stunning in their gowns, the colours

melded splendidly and they had the upright carriage to go

with it.

125

„Don‟t we look the business?‟ Meg said. „Three flowers

blooming in the snow.‟

„Snow?‟ Babs blurted out. „What snow are you on about,

Meg. The forecast was for dry and warm! If it snows we‟ll

freeze to death in these clothes.‟

Meg sighed. She‟d forgotten just how literal Babs could

be sometimes. „Metaphorical snow, Babs. Not real snow!‟

„Ohh; that‟s alright then.‟ Babs was visibly relieved. Jean

snorted, it wasn‟t ladylike but laughing at these pair with

a mouthful of tea was difficult.

„Less than half an hour to go ladies!‟ Madame More-

debt, the couturier said poking her head around the door.

„Any problems that need my attention?‟

„Not a single one,‟ declared Meg to her friend. „You get

yourself off to The Minster, Madame. If there are any

dress problems it‟s going to be there.‟

The neoclassical front of The Minster for Trentby, better

known as The Church of The Bleeding Heart, was bathed

in sunlight. Through the open doors came the sounds of

the organ playing a selection of light music, a recent inno-

vation by the incumbent, the Reverend William Warmer,

who‟d told his congregation that it would be an improve-

ment. He was right; even if the organist disagreed and

wanted to play pop music.

The new walkways, required under the Disability Dis-

crimination Act, matched the design, were smooth, well

swept, and looked to be an ancient part of the surround-

ings. Looking around him at the usual, confused jumble of

traffic jams in the narrow streets, long abandoned road

works mouldering into picturesque cityscape features,

and overfilled builders‟ skips left in the worst possible

126

places; the vicar sighed happily as he said to himself,

„God's in his Heaven and all's right with the World,‟ before

scuttling off to check that the choir girls weren't bullying

the boys, again!

„What time are the Taxis due, Babs?‟ Meg wanted to

know.

„You ordered them, Meg. What time did you tell them to

be here?‟ Barbara replied.

Megan looked blank. „But you were the one looking after

that, Babs. It was on your list of things to do!‟

Jean was busy doing fiddly things with sticky tape and

the top of her gown. „It looks like none of us have. There‟s

only one thing for it! Babs, get onto one of the taxi firms

fast,‟ she said. „Trentby Cabs is the nearest. Ask Pat Miller

if she can do us two cabs here in fifteen minutes. Tell her

it‟s my wedding and it‟s an emergency; she‟ll understand.‟

In the office of what had been the amalgamation of

Concorde and Cavalry Cabs, plus most of Trentby Wedding

Cars, but was now Trentby Cabs & Wedding Cars, the new

phone system was working well. Pat thought so, now

she‟d, almost, got the hang of it.

„Trentby Cabs and Wedding Cars. Pat speaking, how can

we help you?‟ She said into the mouthpiece.

A rushed message, one she didn‟t understand, came

out. Something about an emergency and a wedding at the

dressmakers shop, or maybe at the Minster. She wasn‟t

sure.

„Could you repeat all that, please? „ She asked the flus-

tered woman at the other end of the line. The story was a

bit clearer this time.

„Two cabs for a wedding at Madame Moredebt‟s Le Cou-

turier? But they aren‟t allowed to do weddings there!‟ Pat

127

128

was sure of that. „Start again, my love,‟ she advised.

„Deep breaths,‟ for some reason that got a hysterical gig-

gle from the far end, „Now: you want two cabs at Le Coutu-

rier in how long?‟

The voice on the phone changed. „Hi, Pat. It‟s Jean Grab-

ble here. We‟ve have a problem. We didn‟t book any cars

for my wedding which is in twenty minutes at the Church

of the Bleeding Heart. Can you rustle up a couple of cabs

for me, please?‟

Wedding and Jean Grabble were the two things that Pat

had thought would never go together, because Jean was

too plain bossy for her own good. „Right you are then Jean.

It will be done!‟

Turning round she called into the drivers‟ ready room,

„Panic call! Anybody who can get one of the White Wed-

ding Cars on the road in the next five minutes is wanted at

the posh wedding togs hire shop on the High Street ten

minutes ago.‟

Two voices answered: „Got one ready, already,‟ shouted

Billy the Kid, the firms oldest and longest serving driver, to

the sound of an engine being started and a delicate

screech of tyres as he departed.

„There in a jiffy, Pat,‟ called Hoppy Cassidy as he

dragged his boots off the couch and tipped the office cat

out of a white cowboy hat. He always wore a white hat for

weddings, he didn‟t know why but thought it was better

somehow.

Pat heard the sound of starter whirring and then Hoppy

shouting. „Start yer goldurned thing, start will yer.‟ It didn‟t

work.

„I‟ll have to take the wheelchair car, Pat‟, he called. „It‟s

white anyway, but I‟m leaving the chair on the hoist so

don‟t book it out until I get back.‟ There was the sound of

129

tyres on the floor and he was gone.

Pat relaxed and phoned Madame Moredebt to pass on

the news.

As Jean had said it wasn‟t far for the cars to come, how-

ever, that wasn‟t, thanks to traffic snarl-ups and road

works, the same thing as taking a short time. By dint of

some unorthodox short cuts, and driving that could only

be described as „competitive‟, Billy was outside the shop

in less than the ten minutes he‟d thought it‟d take.

Meg and Babs popped out of the door as he drew up.

„Right you gorgeous ladies,‟ he said as, with a little help

from his foot, he carefully placed the train of Megan‟s

dress in the back of the cab. „Bleeding Heart, five min-

utes. Fasten your seat belts we‟re about to take off!‟

„Is my hair okay, Meg?‟ Babs asked her sister four min-

utes later as the car pulled up at the Church Close en-

trance to the Minster. „I never knew that you could get

here that way, even if you walked!‟

Billy smiled; he‟d been wanting an excuse to use some

of those, not illegal but definitely frowned on, short cuts

for ages. „All perfectly legal and above board ladies,‟ he

assured them. „It‟s not often you see the backs of some of

those buildings, is it? Still all safe and sound and here

now. Now you get into church and get ready for the big oc-

casion, all smiles and happy. Which one of you‟s getting

married by the way?‟

„Neither of us,‟ Megan explained. „Jean Grabble‟s marry-

ing our brother Tom Green. We‟re along for the experi-

ence, it‟s the first time we‟ve been bridesmaids.‟

‟If I were you I‟d go inside and sooth him. Hoppy was on

the radio and says that with traffic as it is the bride‟s go-

ing to be late. Another ten minutes or so I‟d say.‟

Babs interjected. „But it didn‟t take you that long, so why

130

should, Hoppy I think you called him, take any longer?‟

„‟Cos Hopalong‟s not a Trentby native lad, Miss Green. I

grew up here and used these streets as a playground.

That matters when you want some serious short cuts.‟

Mick Grabble came over, well barbered and looking re-

splendent in a top hat and tails, „Hi girls, you look abso-

lutely fabulous, but where‟s our Jean, then?‟

„On the way, we‟ve been told, Mick. Another ten minutes

or so according to this gentleman.‟ Megan replied indicat-

ing Billy, as the girls, all smiles, went off towards the main

doors

The two men, who knew each other, exchanged greet-

ings in the form of a „Morning‟ as Billy nodded in confir-

mation.

„Hoppy‟s driving, Mick. Says the traffic‟s terrible, even

worse than a match day.‟

„Right! Thanks, Billy. You doin‟ the drop off afterwards?‟

„Dunno, Mick. Pat didn‟t say but I expect so. Anyway, we

haven‟t got another wedding this morning so there‟s no

problem. Where you got the „do‟ any-road up?‟

„Labour Club I think, Billy. Jean‟s been in and out of

there since she was a nipper; and now the re-build‟s fin-

ished after that pop group wrecked the place it‟s got

some good facilities, so it makes sense.‟

„That a to-do at Chummy‟s almost wedding certainly set

the place afire. What with the bride running off with his

cousin and all. Where is he as a matter of interest? I have-

n‟t seen the Honourable Jason Fortesque-Chumleigh

around recently.‟

Mick jerked his thumb over his shoulder. „In there, Billy.

He‟s the best man!‟

„Best man! How did he land that one?‟

„Tom‟s best mate at school, so I‟m told. He‟s also

131

dragged his dad and step mother along so we‟ve got Sir

Lancelot and Lady Britney Fortesque-Chumleigh as well as

Fiona Finzy, Chummy‟s latest lady friend in there.‟

„Sooner you than me, mate. Who‟ve you brought along

by the way as your plus one?‟

„At present I‟m helping a poor Countess cope with her

grief at being abandoned,‟ Mick said with a straight face.

„Her husband has, tragically, gone missing. Done a bunk,

I'm afraid The Countess of Trentby needs a lot of consola-

tion, poor darling. I'm offering her some assistance in that

direction.‟

Billy gulped. This lot knew a LOT of the nobs around

here. „Righty-ho then. I‟d better get this cab out of the way

before Hoppy gets here with the bride. Ta-ra!‟

Meanwhile in the cake shop next to Mans‟ Best Friend.

„The little ****. He‟s been doing what?‟ hissed Sharlene,

her gothic dead-pan makeup turning puce around the

edges and black painted eyelids contracting into beady

slits of pure evil intent. „Wait till I see him, I‟ll give him a ...

„Hang on, Sharlene, I can see you‟re upset,‟ pleaded

Randolph dreading the fact that the girl of his dreams

wasn‟t daft and she‟d pretty soon realise that he must

know more about Barry‟s illicit telescope than he was pre-

pared to let on.

„Don‟t you „hang on‟ me, Randolph Andover. I want to

know how long you‟ve known about Barry, the Degas of

Trentby. Are you telling me he‟s making a fortune online

drawing manga warriors based on me in the all together?

The midnight blue shield-maiden with the dragon tattoo

and the Egyptian beetle cartouche ... that‟s me? Princess

Angelikka? ‟

132

133

Randolph wasn‟t too sure how Degas came into it, or

actually who Degas was, but he didn‟t want to show his

ignorance. So he fessed up to what he actually under-

stood of her question.

„Yeah, you‟re Princess Angelikka! Not long, Shar, honest

only a day or two.‟

„Wait a minute, you dog! That‟s what all that palaver on

Thursday with the big brolly was all about, wasn‟t it?‟ In

truth Sharlene had never been more flattered and she

couldn‟t hold back a chuckle at this point as she had a

flashback of the sight of him sitting in the goldfish pond.

Even though it rankled that she had spent twenty five quid

downloading the primal Amazonia warrior character she

found was now based on herself.

„Sorry,‟ said Randolph taking his change and picking up

the bag of mixed fondant fancies from the counter. „I

really am. I‟m going to shut him down, honest.‟

„Oh, no. No you‟re not, not until I‟ve been well and truly

compensated and perhaps ... no, not now I‟ll give this

some thought. Meet me after work,‟ she said, a sticky

hand grasping his hairy wrist. Stunned by the first physical

contact with a girl since he‟d had his TB booster jab in

high school and the nurse‟s thigh had brushed his arm,

Randolph nodded as sweat trickled into his eyes. Stum-

bling out of the cake shop his feet didn‟t quite reach the

ground and he fell straight into the arms of their local

cross-dressing upholder of the Queen‟s peace, who quick

as a wink had the young offender back on his feet.

„ „ello, „ello, „ello, what‟s going on here?‟ said the ex-

pression all over the crime fighter‟s much abused counte-

nance.

It was a pivotal life-turning moment. A ping went off in

his brain. Now Randolph knew what he had to do to get

134

his over-possessive mother off his back. This was turning

out to be quite a day.

Across town a white cab, equipped for wheel chairs, was

departing Madame Moredebt‟s establishment. Hopalong,

was fuming at the traffic and at the designers of the cab.

Owing to the fullness of the multilayered meringue-type

skirt, he‟d been unable to get Jean, the bride, in the main

body and had had to put her into the wheelchair housed

in the back.

„Not much chance of getting to the Bleeding Heart on

time, Jean‟, Hopalong apologised. „I‟ll use some of the

back streets and short cuts but this thing‟s too unwieldy

to do it properly.‟

Billy, talking to Mick, was busy not answering the radio

until it was too late.

Ten minutes later people were thinking of leaving the

Minster saying, „The bride's done a bunk‟. The organist

thought that this was a happy moment to introduce her

ideas of what an organist should play and, swell pedal

hard down, burst into a popular rendition beginning with

„Yellow Submarine‟.

While Hoppy was saying, „There's only one thing for it

Jean: the King Arthur bridge!‟

„That's a foot bridge, Hoppy. You can't get a cab across it

and anyway it‟s illegal. They‟ll have your license if you get

caught.‟

„That‟s what people think, Jean,‟ Hoppy said as he

turned into a narrow side road. „When Arthur King built

that bridge it was intended to be part of an inner relief

road, but it‟s never been closed to traffic. It‟s only that

folks think it has.‟

135

Rocketing along at a lot more than the legal 30 mph,

Hoppy turned onto the „King Arthur‟, horn going full blast;

scattering pedestrians like confetti in his wake. The Min-

ster Courtyard was, except for a few haphazardly parked

cars, empty, which allowed Hoppy a chance to really cram

the speed on, he exited it at almost 70 mph and, braking

hard, pulled up at the Minster front.

As part of this manoeuvre, assisted by the handbrake,

he turned the cab sharply into a sliding dough-nut turn.

Magic ... he‟d always wanted to do that.

Jean, although belted into the electric wheelchair, was

thrown forward and accidentally hit the door release han-

dle. The chocks on the chair mechanism hadn‟t been de-

signed for this and, with a loud „THUNK‟ released their

hold on the wheels.

Seeking a handhold, Jean grabbed the control handles

as the chair was ejected from the back of the cab. Unfor-

tunately, being what could be called a genius in the me-

chanical arts Dusty had „souped-up‟ the motors. Instead

of the stately 4 mph it was designed for, they now gave

the chair an impressive turn of speed.

Fortunately, the new smooth disabled access path gave

the chair a soft landing as it shot towards the open doors.

People leaving the church, thinking the wedding had been

abandoned, scattered before the screaming apparition

bearing down on them. The verger yelled in alarm and

leapt to one side as the chair, vaulting the two proces-

sional steps inside the door, disappeared in the general

direction of the Lady Chapel.

By this time, Jean had begun to get hold of herself and

hauled back on the two control handles. Unfortunately,

heavy braking hadn‟t figured as a design feature and the

chair slowed more than braked. This would have been

136

perfectly acceptable if the cleaner hadn‟t removed some

of the floor gratings to get improved access to the heating

system.

Tom Green was in „a bit of a stew‟ by this time. His ut-

terly and absolutely marvellous and beloved Jean had de-

serted him, and before they were even married. Mentally

he corrected that statement; before they were legally mar-

ried. Pacing about in the aisle, he saw Jean, and the chair,

hurtling towards the impending doom of the heating sys-

tem chasm and took action.

Rugby football was his school game, none of that effete

soccer was allowed, so he took a short run and tackled

the chair scooping Jean out of its clutches a second be-

fore it plunged into the stygian depths of the crypt.

A short hiatus ensued before the ceremony started.

Half an hour later Mr & Mrs Green appeared at the main

door of the Minster to the applause of the crowd. If Mrs

Green appeared, a little shaken it was put down to the

stress of getting married and if Mr Green appeared a trifle

dishevelled that was not to be wondered at.

Being married to „That Grabble Girl‟ was enough to make

any hot-blooded man sweat a bit.

Meanwhile in the High Street... „Oh, knickers!‟ Randolph

groaned inwardly, as he felt P C Smither‟s rough hand

grab at his collar. The very person I didn‟t want to bump

into. He‟s got it in for me, he has.

„Yo, Sergeant Smithers. I hope you‟re well?‟ He smiled

sweetly up at the policeman, hoping his promotion of the

law officer might flatter him into forgetting about trying to

nail him on some supposed offence.

For a brief moment, he could have sworn that P C

137

Daniel Smithers grew six inches in stature and puffed out

his chest in pride, before coming back down to earth with

a bang, and replying

„It‟s Police Constable Smithers, actually, as I‟m sure you

well know, young Randolph‟.

„Really?‟ Randolph feigned incredulity. „I can hardly be-

lieve it. After all these years of public service and you‟re

still only a Constable!‟

P C Smithers stiffened.

„Now then…‟

„What I meant was…‟ Randolph added, quickly redeem-

ing the situation, „…whatever can the police hierarchy be

thinking of. I‟m sure you ought to be a Chief Inspector by

now, by rights. But, as I know from my own experience, life

is anything but fair‟.

„Hm. That‟s as may be, but I want a word with you!‟

Oh no. If his mother got to hear about this, Randolph

would never hear the end of it. Undoubtedly, she would be

asked to leave the Women‟s Institute, or at least give up

her position as Chairman of the Trentby branch.

„Oh Randolph,‟ she‟d so often complain. „You‟re such a

disappointment to me. I don‟t know where I went wrong.

You don‟t take after me. It must be that good-for-nothing

father of yours. All those school reports saying how bright

you were, all the love and attention I lavished on you, and

yet you refused to apply your brains to positive activities,

instead of law-breaking. And ending up with a tag and

Community Service Order. I had such dreams and hopes

for you, Randolph Churchill Andover. A name to be proud

of and to live up to. If you‟d gone to college, got a good

education, used your abilities properly, you might have

been a lawyer, a doctor, a salesman or a statesman. If the

worst came to the worst, you could at least have gone into

138

the police force, instead of which you spend all your time

wasting your life on that computer, or avoiding the police!

Now I can‟t hold my head up in my own town.‟

Nag, nag, nag, nag, nag. That‟s all he ever heard from

her. He needed to think of a way to get her off his back.

And he was nothing if not resourceful. But, meanwhile,

the pressing problem was not Carol Andover, but PC

Smithers.

Randolph had to come up with a diversionary tactic.

And fast, too, and though he possessed little in the way of

documentary evidence of educational achievement, apart

from his A Level in computing, he nevertheless was an in-

telligent boy, who could think on his feet.

„That‟s good, because I want to have a word with you,

Sergeant.‟

„Er, really?‟ Smithers was momentarily wrong-footed,

and overlooked Randolph‟s deliberate slip of the tongue.

„Yes, indeed. Do you want to go first, or shall I?‟ The

young man asked, with mock respect.

„Oh well, if you put it like that, you go first, sonny.‟

„It‟s like this…‟ Randolph continued, lowering his voice

enticingly, as if about to reveal a secret. „This mustn‟t go

any further. You must promise on penalty of death not to

sell me down the river. OK? If she ever found out what I‟m

about to tell you...‟

PC Smithers didn‟t know what „selling down the river‟

was, but imagined it must be something to do with trading

from canal boats, so he nodded. He was intrigued, and

released Randolph‟s collar, bending his bulky frame over

to catch every word Randolph whispered.

„You know my mum?‟

„Er, yessssss‟, Smithers nodded, nervous about incrimi-

nating himself in some way. „What about her?‟

139

„She‟s not bad looking, for an old bird, wouldn‟t you

say?‟

„Can‟t say I‟ve ever really noticed‟, the policeman con-

fessed.

„You‟re kidding! P‟raps that‟s what‟s held you back. I

mean, officers are meant to be observant, notice every-

thing, be alert at all times. Have you ever thought that

might be your problem? Anyway, you may not have noticed

her, but she‟s certainly noticed you! Oh yes. Never stops

talking about you.‟

„Really?‟ Daniel Smithers was amazed, and found the

revelation quite pleasing.

„I‟d say she‟s got the hots alright.‟ Randolph dangled

the prospect under Smither‟s not inconsiderable nose.

„In fact,‟ he continued, „I‟d be willing to bet ten bucks

that if you were to ask her out to Ladies Night at the Free-

masons‟ Hall, or some other gig, she‟d snap your arm off.

Heck yes. Get this. She only told me this morning that she

would have been proud to have a son in the police force; a

pillar of the community, like that lovely Officer Smithers.‟

The policeman‟s mind was buzzing with new, unex-

pected possibilities. So much so, that he quite forgot

about apprehending young Andover, and „the word‟ he‟d

wanted with him. Randolph seized his opportunity and

legged it down the High Street. Ten minutes later, he ar-

rived home. Now to tackle the problem of his mum, he

thought.

Carol Andover was busy in the garden, or to be more ac-

curate, the back yard. She was cutting what few flowers

were robust enough to grow amidst the cracked paving

flags and weeds, for the table arrangement at the evening

WI meeting. She noticed that Randolph was a bit out of

breath.

140

„What have you been up to now?‟ she groaned.

„Give over, mum. You are so suspicious.‟

„With good cause!‟ Carol asserted.

„I‟ve been talking to our friendly neighbourhood law-

man, alias PC Daniel Smithers, if you must know‟.

„Oh Randolph! You‟ve already got a tag, Community Ser-

vice Order and several ASBOs! Won‟t you ever learn!‟

„No, mum. Stop sweating. This was a chat about per-

sonal matters.‟

„You chat with Danny Smithers about personal things?

Pull the other one. The only time you two speak is when

he cautions you and drags you round here, to inflict more

shame on me.‟

„Seriously, mum. Would you be surprised to hear we

were talking about you, and his feelings for you?‟

„Frankly, I‟d be astounded. Feelings for me? Pigs might

fly!‟

„Now mother. Show some respect. It‟s not very nice to

describe PC Smithers as a pig. A rozzer, a peeler, a cop or

even, fuzz maybe. But a pig. That‟s mean. Especially when

he obviously thinks so much of you.‟

Carol Andover felt faint, and leaned against the plastic

greenhouse, stuffed with empty plant pots and soil, to

steady herself.

„Don‟t say you weren‟t warned when he asks you out!‟

Randolph declared triumphantly and with a huge degree

of satisfaction.

Later that day in the doggie charity shop ...

„Barry, I‟d like you to meet ...‟ the cordial greeting was

cut off at this point by Sharlene‟s intervention as her right

knee was finding contact with a soft part of Barry‟s anat-

141

omy.

Staggering towards the clothes rack, Barry folded in the

centre and sank to his knees watched in horror by Manag-

eress Geraldine from over by the security mirror at the

rear of the till.

„Randolph what are your friends doing over there?‟ she

called in her „I‟m in charge‟ voice.

„Nothing, nothing, they‟re just leaving,‟ pacified

Randolph who hadn‟t expected Sharlene to be so literal.

Proving that characters coming to life can lead to the un-

expected.

Outside on the pavement Sharlene, carried forward her

plan of action with a judicious handful of Barry‟s grubby

collar. „You listen to me, you evil little toe-rag, you are giv-

ing me my twenty five quid back and you‟re cutting me in

50-50 for any further sales of Princess Angelikka. And

you‟re getting rid of that telescope today or I‟m telling PC

Smithers about it. Got it? Got it? Good!‟

The last questions being emphasised in a manner far

too graphic for Randolph‟s gentle disposition, needless to

say Barry‟s thrice kneaded undercarriage wasn‟t the same

for many days which followed and he adopted an unfortu-

nate dancing gait which afforded him several warm smiles

from chaps of an alternative disposition to his own.

Randolph was impressed.

Sharlene further bowled over her new beau by riffling

Barry‟s pockets while he was being sick on the pavement,

and snatching said twenty five smackers from a hidden

hoard in his sock. Randolph blinked in surprise, she was a

darn sight braver than he was, there was no way he‟d

have put his own fingers inside Barry‟s footwear. With her

triumphant withdrawal into the cake shop, Randolph

helped Barry to his feet hoping she‟d wash her hands be-

142

143

fore serving any Eccles cakes or cream buns.

„That went well. Got off lightly, I‟d say,‟ said Randolph

brushing off Barry‟s jacket.

‟50-50. That‟s a bit strong. I wonder if she‟ll negotiate?‟

„Couldn‟t you draw another character? A warrior prince

perhaps?‟ asked Randolph drawing his stomach in and

flexing his biceps. Watching from the shop window Gerald-

ine winced, what was the great chump doing?

„Who you?‟ grinned Barry.

„Yeah me, what‟s wrong with me?‟

„Have you got all day ...‟ muttered Barry. But then, as

Randolph was storming off in a huff, Barry had another

one of his „moments of clarity‟. Perhaps, just perhaps, the

idiot had something in that idea. There was a niche mar-

ket for tubbiness. Chubby heroes were big news ... lots of

games wanted „inclusive‟ characters so the dumb suckers

sat on their backsides playing away into the night had

somebody onscreen to relate to, someone who looked as

muffin-waisted and podgy as they were themselves. And

here was Randy ... willing to be that hero.

Barry‟s eyes lit up with £ signs.

„Okay ... perhaps I was a bit hasty. We‟ll give it a go.

Come round tonight and I‟ll take some photos.‟

‟50-50 or no deal.‟

Barry nodded. Randolph went back in to the shop grin-

ning from ear to ear. It wasn‟t until he wandered in front of

the cracked mirror in the changing room that it finally

dawned what sort of photos Barry would need to take of

him on which to base this virtual alter-ego. Getting his kit

off in Barry‟s draughty attic wasn‟t the way he had envis-

aged spending the evening and if his mum ever found

out ...

Somewhere, sometime after „THE WEDDING‟

144

The cab disappeared into the gloom the street lights cast

across the car park and the assembled guests retired to

the bar.

„Thank heavens for that! Now I can get these shoes off

and get changed into comfy clothes,‟ Babs said to her sis-

ter Megan.

„Oh poot,‟ Meg replied. „you're a shorry excuse for a

pardy aminal Bads. You should me like be.‟

„A bit tidily you mean, Meg?‟ Babs replied.

„I'm dod a bet toddly, Bads, I'm decipherably squifferly.

It's nod every day you lose half a brother... no... that's half

lose a brother, and gain 'nother shishter, id id? That needs

sebrelating, and nod only that bud we should have a

pardy over it. Ash well!‟

„Right, you finish that drink, Meg, and we'll both have

another, then we'll go over and chat up that hunky brother

-in-law we've just been handed on a plate. What is it any-

way?‟

„Dunno, Bads. The marban... barman I mean, shed...

said... it was some sort of indivisible rabbit I think.

Some'ing about a harvest festival head-banger.‟

„Oh you mean a Harvey Wall-banger. Right, two of them

and a chatting up session with Mick then. You sit down

there and I'll get them.‟

By the time she got back with two, Mega, extra large,

super giant economy sized, drinks Megan was asleep in

the corner. „Poor Meg, two sniffs of a wine bottle cork and

you're out for the count,‟ she said looking at her sister,

folded into a bundle of expensive fabric. Turning to the

man by her side she asked, ‟Can you manage to get her

home okay, Uncle Arthur?‟

„Not a problem, Babs,‟ he replied. „And I've told you be-

145

fore; stop calling me uncle! I'm your cousin and I'm only

four years older than you for heaven‟s sake.‟

„Not a problem for me, Arthur, but what about Araminty,

your dearly beloved wife? Would she agree?‟

„Hmm. Ye-es. You've got a point there, Babs. I'll talk to

her first. Any idea where Tom and Jean are going for the

honeymoon? She's bound to ask.‟

„Not sure, but Egypt was mentioned. Tom got some sort

of bargain package deal I believe. Three weeks up a pyra-

mid guided by Ramekins the Grate or something. Mind

you, Jean said it was a two month wine tasting course at

darkest Iceland. But I think she was joking, 'cos it doesn't

get dark in Reykjavik at this time of the year!‟

She shrugged, which, Babs being too slim to be called

'Junoesque', but was never-the-less noted by the cogno-

scenti to be 'VERY WELL BUILT', was dangerous to any by-

standers within range, and an instant demonstration of

how dress makers managed to totally ignore the finer

points of stress engineering design, and get away with it.

„Whatever, your guess is as good as mine.‟

Hoisting the comatose Megan into his arms Uncle Ar-

thur went out of the room, his wife tagging along behind

frowning.

Babs went in search of her new brother-in-law and

found him talking to 'The Nobs'. Mick Grabble was hold-

ing forth on the importance of the recycling trade to Sir

Lancelot and Lady Britney Fortesque-Chumleigh, The Hon-

ourable Jason Fortesque-Chumleigh, or Chummy as she

knew him, as well as Fiona Finzy, Chummy‟s latest lady

friend … again, if the rumours were right .... and Anna-

belle, Countess of Trentby, who was hanging onto the rag-

man‟s arm with a death grip.

„Hi everybody,‟ she greeted them. „Here's your drink,

146

Mick,‟ and forced the remaining mega-sized cocktail into

his free hand.

Mick took a quick swallow, „Nice!‟ he said as he came

up for air. „What is it?‟

„Fruit juice I believe. That's what the barman said any-

way. I asked him for something to smooth out a sore

throat. Mainly grape juice‟s what he said.‟

Emptying the largest brandy balloon the club had, one

of a pair that were usually used as flower vases, he

passed it back. „Wheeoo, I needed that. It's dry work talk-

ing. Could I ask you to get me another one please, Babs.

Say a pint or so? That glass is too small for a proper

drink.‟

„If you wouldn't mind, young lady,‟ said Annabelle,

„Could you get me one as well? I like fruit juice. It is so dif-

ferent to the dreadful stuff my dear departed husband

drank.‟ Mick frowned: „Dear departed!‟ What did she

mean by that? Surely Lord Lionel had done a bunk, not

cocked his clogs?

„Of course, your Ladyship,‟ said Babs, giving a saccha-

rin smile. „I'll get the barman to bring them over.‟

The barman gave her a conspiratorial grin. „Leave it to

me, I'll bring them over when I'm done.‟ The barman then

told her „There‟s a man over there who wants to speak to

you, Miss Green, that one by the window in the blue shirt.

Says he‟s Maximilian Crest, a researcher from the British

Municipal Museum. Really wanted to talk to Jean Grabble

but I told him that he‟d missed his chance as she was off

on her honeymoon. I thought you might be able to help

him. That okay?‟

Babs went over and talked to Maxie. He learned much

more about Jean‟s lucky scarab than he had from

Randolph with his random and inarticulate memory.

147

Maxie‟s course was clear, he had to go to Egypt - ex-

tremely cheaply. An idea came to mind, one he‟d have to

go back to London to work on.

Window leather in hand Deirdre Drinkwater was despon-

dent. The man of her dreams had turned into a night-

mare, how could a dream disappear into a puff of reality

like that? What had a married Countess got that she had-

n‟t got in spades? What could Michael Grabble see in that

hussy? She was common as muck. She might have

money? But taste? Had she any taste? The only taste

Countess Bluddschott had any knowledge of was that of

fried bangers. The circles in the grime on the shop front

window grew larger and larger as Deirdre vented her an-

noyance.

It so happened the luckless Barry was about to enter

said shop in search of soul-mate Randolph, who he had

forgotten to tell to bring some props for the photo shoot,

when Deirdre decided it was time to empty her bucket into

the gutter. Without a thought ... whoosh ...

„Oh I‟m so sorry,‟ she spluttered as the soaking wet and

bedraggled Barry gasped in amazement.

„Crikey, I haven‟t been this wet since Christmas morning

when mam threatened me with the sharp end of the

toasting fork if I didn‟t shower and shave in time for Christ-

mas dinner. If you can call fish fingers and baked beans

worthy of celebration.‟

Clearly he was delirious and in shock. Deirdre took

charge of his arm and steered the dripping Barry inside

the shop.

„There‟s no one in the changing room,‟ said Geraldine

eyeing the trail of squelching footprints on the lino.

148

Such close and intimate proximity was a new sensation

for both parties, and as Barry allowed Deirdre to towel him

down, comb his hair and rearrange his soggy clothing in

the bijou changing room something decidedly odd oc-

curred. His breathing raced, his skin tingled and his stut-

ter vanished. Flush-faced Deirdre insisted, „You‟d better

come home to my house for dinner. Compensation like,

it‟s fish-pie! And there‟s pudding.‟

She had him at fish-pie. All thoughts of the missing

Randolph went entirely out of Barry‟s head. True Deirdre

was Rubenesque in stature and had a face for radio but

when she was in that cubicle on her knees rubbing him all

over with a teacloth, Barry‟s soul had soared to heights

untold, never connecting the influence of the mischievous

sacred scarab‟s mismatching of opposites between the

events unfolding.

What Geraldine meant by, „no glove, no love‟ as she

pushed them out on to the street wasn‟t lost on Barry ei-

ther. Bit rude! he thought. What an afternoon, so full of

possibilities! Marmalized by a space Princess and now he

seemed to have acquired a girl-friend of his own. A real

girl-friend who could make fish-pie and send shivers up

and down his spine. Although that might have been the

unexpected faceful of cold, soapy water. Exactly how he

had achieved this minor miracle was a mystery. His mam

would be pleased: he was sure she held suspicions that

he batted for the other team.

Thus it was Geraldine was left alone to cash up that

Saturday teatime and, unconcerned, not far away on the

island in the middle of Bluddschott Park‟s lake Reggie

yawned, and picked his teeth with a claw, watched be-

nignly by the dog-headed statue guarding the faux-temple

of Dumilla.

149

Maxie hadn‟t gone far from the newsagents shop when a

stranger, a foreigner to judge from his accent, came up to

him.

„Excuse me please,‟ the man asked, „Can you tell me

the way to the station, please?‟

„Sure!‟ said Maxie, always willing to please, „The best

way from here is across the park. I‟m going part of the way

myself; I‟ll show you.‟

They walked through the streets. Maxie pointed out

various places of interest as they went. The stranger re-

mained absolutely silent. Maxie would have like to ask

him what country he came from, but felt that would some-

how be rude. There were very few people about in the

park, but then suddenly and unexpectedly another

stranger appeared from behind the rose-bushes. Each

man took Maxie firmly by the arm and marched him off to

a park bench, where they made him sit down between

them.

„Now, sir,‟ said the first stranger, „We need to talk about

the scarab.‟

„What business is it of yours, might I ask?‟

„We are Egyptians. It is our business. And yours as well,

if you are sensible.‟

„Are you trying to threaten me?‟ Despite the unusual

situation, Maxie didn‟t feel particularly frightened: he felt

he could handle himself well enough against this pair, and

he found the whole experience strangely intriguing.

„We have no need to threaten you. The scarab is threat-

ening enough.‟

„What on earth are you talking about? Anyway, I don‟t

have the scarab. It‟s not here anymore. I think it‟s going to

150

be taken back to Egypt.‟

„And the mummy? The one that your English lord took?‟

„That‟s still here. At least, I think it is.‟

„That is no use. The scarab and the mummy: they must

not be separated. The goddess will be angry.‟

„The goddess? You mean Dumilla?‟

„That is what the Romans called her, yes. But her true

name, in the ancient language; that is too sacred to be

spoken out loud. Your Mister Toogood, if he was any kind

of a scholar, he could have told you this.‟

How come they knew about Tim Toogood, Maxie won-

dered. And why hadn‟t they approached him, not me? But

he said nothing for the moment. The first stranger contin-

ued to talk, while the third man said nothing, his face re-

maining absolutely motionless, staring straight ahead.

Like some kind of automaton, thought Maxie.

„Listen, sir; this is very important. The scarab and the

mummy; they do not like being separated; they want to be

together. Otherwise strange things will happen. Already

you may have seen people behaving oddly, perhaps? That

is the scarab‟s doing. It will get worse. And who knows

what the mummy might do? There is great danger here,

not just for the people of this town, but perhaps for the

whole world!‟

„That‟s just rubbish!‟ Maxie exclaimed in disgust, „I‟m

not superstitious, you know: occult powers or any of that

twaddle! It‟s no good your trying to scare me!‟

„I am not surprised, sir, for that is what you have been

taught. But you are wrong. The old gods of Egypt; long,

long ago they fell before the Cross and the Crescent, but

they are not dead. No! They are watching, and waiting.

They are stirring once again. And she who must not be

named; she whom you call Dumilla after the Roman fash-

151

ion; already I can sense her impatience, her anger.‟

Maxie looked from one to the other of the two strang-

ers. „I think you‟re a couple of frauds. You‟re trying to con

me, aren‟t you? I don‟t believe you‟re real Egyptians at all!‟

„And why should you think that, sir? How would you

know what real Egyptians would be like?‟

Maxie had not anticipated this response. „I‟ve seen

Egyptian leaders in pictures on television‟, he replied,

„Mubarak, Nasser, Sadat …, King Farooq …‟ He was aware

he was becoming less and less convincing.

„Tush! They were not real Egyptians, they were Arabs!

Apart from Sadat, who was a Nubian from the south. But

we are of the ancient blood of Egypt, and we remain true

to the old ways.

„It is for your own good, sir, that you must bring us the

scarab. As for the mummy, we shall see to that. Now we

shall let you go. You need not try to find us, for we have

put our mark on you, though you cannot see it, and we

shall know when you have the scarab in your hands. Ex-

pect us then. And be warned: do not delay too long! The

goddess is waiting, and she will not wait forever!‟

In the departure lounge of Trentby International Airport,

Jean Grabble was snuggling up to her brand new hus-

band.

„I think you handled that very well, Tom,‟ she said, as

she reached down and kept his hand where it was. It was-

n't that she objected, too much anyway, but not in public!

Her mum had always said, 'Nice girls don't do that!' She

giggled at the thought that now she wasn't a 'Nice girl' any

more, she was married and the rules had changed. She

wasn't sure of what they'd changed too, but was going to

152

have fun finding out.

„In the circumstances it didn't turn out too badly, did it

Jean? You keeping your maiden name really put a kink in

the system but it got us a free move into first class.‟

„Yes: I could see it on the booking clerk‟s face. He was

expecting a Mrs Thomas Green and he got a Jean Grab-

ble, Mrs T. Green. Silly man!‟ The scorn in her voice was

evident. „Another one who never paid attention at school

I'll bet.‟

„My darling Jean, you may be the first one he's ever

come across. It's not that often it happens!‟

„Don't let's argue about it, Tom. I mean here we are on

our honeymoon, to somewhere you still haven't told me

about, and you haven't told me you love me to distraction

for almost five minutes.‟

„According to that clock it's six and a half to be exact my

dear darling wife whom I love to distraction and will do so

until the end of time; and probably a bit longer.‟

Jean wrinkled her nose at him and then pulled his head

down for a real kiss.

The public address system gave its 'bing-bong-bing-

bong' and burst into life. „Will all passengers for flight

AE213 please go to channel 32 for boarding.‟

Tom stood and offered his hand. „Come my dearly be-

loved wife!‟ He declaimed. „Let us sally forth into the great

unknown and find our seats in the comfort of the first

class compartment of the magic carpet that will waft us to

the mysterious middle east.‟ He bowed and, still declaim-

ing, gestured for her to link arms and accompany him. „To

a land where the pace of life has been unchanged for

countless and uncountable generations. To the land of

the magic of the Pharaohs, the Gods and Goddesses of

Ancient times, the Pyramids and the slow flow of the great

153

river as it wends its way through the 'Black Lands' to the

great waters. There, where we shall recline on the deck of

our felucca, sailing from Aswan under the light of moon

whilst we dine of the finest viands prepared in the secret

manner that has been handed down to the chef from his

forefathers, and partake of the wine of the country.‟

Jean had suspected that, at Tom‟s core, there was bur-

ied a romantic streak a mile wide and having her feelings

confirmed was overwhelming.

She threw her arms around him and hugged him, „You

wait until I get you alone tonight‟, she said. „I'll have you

begging for mercy for not telling me you're a romantic at

heart.‟

„Hmm, yes please. Can't wait!‟ Tom replied as he kissed

her and led the way to channel 32.

„What will it be d‟you think, Tom?‟ she asked as they

made their way down the ramp.

„What will what be?‟

„Tom! Stop being so infuriating! These finest viands pre-

pared in the secret manner that has been handed down

to the chef from his forefathers.‟

„Something exotic I should think, something... ohh... full

of strange and peculiar foreign spices and the exciting to

the taste buds. You know? Something like a half burnt

beef burger with a cola to wash it down.‟

Jean laughed and punched him in the ribs. ‟A double

dose of the most exquisite punishment for you tonight,

Thomas Green.‟

„Promises, promises!‟ Tom softly said, in a deep, sad,

voice. „All I get is promises.‟

Their arrival at the gate and boarding the plane stopped

any further levity.

Maxie had visions of being followed by the three secret

154

society agents and the gaping jaws of crocodiles for days

after his rapid departure from Trentby, even when he was

back at work at the museum, but now he had a plan.

„Miss Spur, can I have a word with you, please?‟ To say

that Maxie was polite to his supervisor was an understate-

ment. He grovelled.

„What is it now Maxie?‟ She ticked them off on her fin-

gers. „Too many school groups? Too much to learn? Not

enough time off? If I've told you once I've told you a dozen

times. Buckle down and do it, don't moan!‟

„Oh no, it's not that, Miss Spur. It's just that... you see …

I'll never be anywhere nearly as good as you are at this

personal skills thing you're teaching me. So it'd be best,

much more use to the Museum, if I do something I can do

and moving things around is where I'm good.‟

He didn't say that he had, on occasion, and sometimes

with the real owners knowledge, successfully 'moved'

things when he had a questionable right to do so. Exactly

what those owners told 'The Plod' and the Insurance Com-

panies was another matter. One that Maxie didn't ask

questions about.

„I think I'd be better as a Museum Assistant than as a

guide. There's a position come up and I'm going to apply

for it.‟

Miss Spur paused; she knew that Maxie was right. Per-

sonal skills were more inborn than teachable. „You want a

reference from me, don't you?‟

„Yes please, Miss Spur.‟ Although Maxie was mediocre

at personal skills, when it suited him he could have given

lessons to Dickens' Uriah Heep.

„I'll have a word with the Senior Handler,‟ she told him.

„I'm fairly sure that he'll listen to me, but I'm not promising

anything.‟

155

156

Later that morning Maxie was called into the Museum

Services Offices and interviewed. Two hours later Miss

Spur told him he'd got the job and was to report to the

Head of Museum Services, immediately!

„We've got a problem in Egypt,‟ he was told by his new

boss. „You're the only pair of hands covered by insurance

we've got to spare and, although you aren't trained, you'll

simply have to do. The only thing you need to remember is

to do as you're told by the lads over there. No nipping out

for a quick burger and no beer! Got it?‟

Maxie admitted that, „He'd got it,‟ and shortly after-

wards found himself on a plane heading for Egypt. At

Cairo he got off the plane, feeling terrible, as if he was

short of some important parts, and staggered off to find

the driver waiting for him.

After a fast wash and brush-up he was renamed. „You

can't be called Maxie! That's a kid‟s name! We'll call you

Max, that's a man's name,‟ was decided by consensus of

the other handlers on site, and he was put to shifting

packing cases around. He didn‟t care, he‟d answer to any-

thing, adopting a new name was a regular occurrence.

„Number four,‟ said Will, the senior man on site. „The

Bluddschott Mummy. That's to go into position six. Shift it

to one side for a second, when Ron gets back open it up

and put it in that display case.‟

„What's Ron doing, Will?‟

„Not a lot, Max. He's got a runny tummy. Let that be a

lesson to you, stick to food-stuff you can rely on.‟

Maxie was intrigued. „The Bluddschott Mummy, you say!

Now that's odd. I was up at Bluddschott Hall last week lis-

tening to a talk by Lady Bluddschott, she said it's unique.‟

„Not unique, Max. There's lots of them around, so many

that about a hundred and fifty years ago they got burned

157

instead of coal, but that one's a bit special. That's why it's

back here on semi-permanent loan. We won't have to lug

that one back to London.‟

Maxie was elated. Here he was in Egypt, and, he was

getting paid for it. And ... so was the Bluddschott mummy.

All he had to do was find the Green's and get the scarab

from them.

Money for old rope!

Geraldine finished cashing up the till and stuffed the mea-

gre takings into a bank bag: £23.62. Not a rich haul for a

Saturday, she thought, once again decidedly glad that

only she was on salary, all the rest of the staff being vol-

untary. As she wandered along the High Street heading

for the night-safe on the corner of the Market Square she

almost fell over a prone figure lying flat on his face on the

pavement.

„Oh my goodness,‟ she cried whipping off her cardigan

and bundling it into a pillow shape, „don‟t worry dear, I‟m

a first aider.‟ This wasn‟t strictly true as she had failed the

obligatory shop management first aid course, but any port

in a storm. Forcing the cardi bundle under his head, she

realised she was acquainted with the prone person, who

was now crossly staring up into her rather curvaceous bal-

cony which was overpoweringly close to his nose.

„Could you get off me please, Geraldine,‟ said a muffled

voice. „I‟m not ill. I‟ve dropped my fob watch down this

storm drain.‟

Geraldine followed his eye-line towards the gutter,

where indeed the man‟s right arm was delving below the

surface of a slatted iron grid.

„Oh I‟m so sorry,‟ she muttered, retrieving her cardigan

158

rather more smartish that she intended and succeeding

in banging his head against the paving stone.

Timothy Toogood rubbed his head good naturedly with

his free hand and, unfortunately, shifted position and thus

pinioned his right arm tight fast inside the storm drain.

„It‟s stuck,‟ he said stating the obvious.

Geraldine coloured, this was all her fault. „I should have

minded my own business,‟ she said crestfallen.

„You meant well,‟ he replied gallantly as a crowd began

to gather.

„He‟s stuck,‟ said Geraldine, mopping his brow with her

hanky. He didn‟t object to this familiarity, or to the fact

that one of Lord Lionel‟s amply endowed mistresses (it

was common knowledge, to everyone except Cynthia, of

course, what with her being the other one) was adopting a

motherly dose of concern for his predicament.

Dr Toogood didn‟t mind that she stayed with him when

the fire-brigade arrived to cut the grid to release his swol-

len arm, or that his fob-watch, inscribed with hieroglyphs,

when retrieved was mangled beyond recognition. He did-

n‟t mind at all when Geraldine, ‟No worries, I insist,‟ in-

sisted on driving him home in her four-by-four, or when

she stayed to share a take-away chow mein, or the bottles

of red that followed, and then with blues on the record

player and a dash of gentlemanly good manners listening

to her damsel-in-distress tale of woe: „Gone, naffed off

without a word!‟

So, Lord Lionel had gone walkabout without a word of

farewell, leaving his number one squeeze high and dry

without so much as a gilt-edged investment in her name.

„You can‟t drive after a bottle of red, can you?‟ So one

thing inevitably led to another after the Dr of Egyptology

unleashed his ponytail for the first time in many a long

159

year and let all seventeen cats out of his cat flap for an

unexpected night on the tiles.

Once again the scarab had worked its magic on those

unsuspecting souls whose hands it had figuratively

passed through, if not literally.

The scarab had not finished yet. It was a moment of

revelation. The mists fell away from her eyes. Beside her

on the pillow, a mass of curls damp against his forehead

was the rag-and-bone man, Mick Grabble. Lady

Bluddschott gasped. What had she done? And, how soon

could they do it again.

Around this time, across town in his dishevelled cottage

Dr Timothy Toogood was also aroused to the possibilities

of a new day as the smell of hot coffee and toast drifted

up the stairs from the kitchen which was far nicer than

the pong from the over spilling, kitty litter tray which he

usual awoke to. The sound of another person in the

kitchen, especially one as gorgeous as Geraldine, was a

new experience; one he was deeply grateful for from the

innermost depths of his soul. Thank all the heavens that

old fraud Lionel Bluddschott had naffed off to wherever.

He was not going to be missed in Trentby.

Randolph Andover also awoke that morning grinning

from ear-to-ear. Before logging off Barry had sent over the

first drafts of his new character the warrior Prince Vulgar

of the Vulongarians and they were ace. Princess Angelikka

agreed. „They‟ll make you a fortune,‟ she said squinting at

the small screen on his mobile phone. „They‟ll make us all

a fortune,‟ agreed Randolph taking a chance and holding

Sharlene‟s hand as they reached street level. In fact she

had allowed him to walk her home (it was only next door

after all) from the session in Barry‟s loft without biting his

head off even once, which the virtual warrior saw as a

160

very good sign.

What Deirdre from the shop was doing in Barry‟s loft

was a bit of a mystery, but she seemed well up for the

photographs he was taking of her in the all-together, so it

must be okay. She was a proper grown up after all. All

those curves were a bit of a revelation, and Barry must

have thought so too as he‟d turned a very strange shade

of purple and was sweating when he and Sharlene had

left them pair to it at about 1.00pm.

Alone in the bedroom she shared with her sister,

Deirdre was having a proper grown up moment. Her head

was clearing after two cups of very strong coffee. She was

having flash backs of Randolph dressed in a teacloth and

plastic helmet and herself draped in a bed-sheet leaning

over a clothes horse and the arm of the battered old sofa

in Barry‟s attic while he took photographs. No! That was

too weird, wasn‟t it? She‟d have to go round and find out

exactly what was going on last night. Everything had been

fine over dinner. He asked for seconds of the fish-pie!

More than fine in fact, until Barry remembered he had

promised to doing some characterisation shots for

Randolph and his girlfriend and invited her to tag along.

And now after all these barren years she had a delicious

secret that her twin sister did not have to share. She had

Barry, who had a nice slice of the black-economy going

on, and a very nice brand new beamer.

Constable Danny Smithers blinked and gasped. This

was not his room. This was too pink and flowery to be his

room unless his mother had had the decorators in again

without telling him. The Postman Pat wallpaper had not

gone down well last time – he was 43 after all. „So you‟re

awake,‟ said a voice brimming with expectation. Danny

gulped as Saturday night came back to him in all its splen-

161

162

dour. What a lucky policeman he was. „Carol,‟ he grinned.

„Carol! Who‟d have guessed.‟ At that moment as a pink

policeman‟s hand reached for his ma, upstairs her son,

Randolph, was also booting up a PC.

A few streets away sprawled on the battered sofa half

hidden under the eaves, Barry was still in the land of nod,

his hand cradling his old teddy bear with one arm and a

grin the size of Cheshire plastered all over unshaven

chops. There has to be a first time for everything. Barry

and Deidre were both caught unawares by the unexpected

experience. Difficult to say which being the most sur-

prised and delighted. Sufficient to say the sofa‟s springs

would never be the same.

„Lady Vee of Vulongaria,‟ he muttered as in his mind‟s

eye plain, plump Deirdre morphed into the woman of his

dreams complete with sword and shield, scantily draped

as Britannia, old bed-sheet permitting. He had to look af-

ter this woman. Her plumptious curves would be worth a

small fortune online not to mention that to-die-for fish-

pie ...

As the influence on the inhabitants of Trentby by the

Bluddschott scarab waned, across two oceans on the

other side of the Med its powers were growing as the

mummy and the sacred scarab began the pre-destined

path towards their inevitable reconciliation. Nothing now

could stop the events which fate had long ago written in

the stars when a small child had washed eons of mud

away from a golden artefact.

Half a world away from Trentby ... „Oh Tom, it's lovely! The

view of the Nile, the Pyramids, those funny boats, every-

thing. You are a darling to get us this room,‟ Jean en-

163

thused as she stood, a slim figure against the cerulean

sky, at the window.

Tom wasn't as struck. „I suppose this is better than the

other one. We‟ve a proper bathroom and the bed‟s much

better. This one's a proper honeymoon bed.‟ He patted the

mattress like a favourite dog. „Why don't you come over

here and we can try it for size?‟

Jean didn't hear him. „I feel like ... oh I don't know ... as if

something magical has happened. Less than a week ago I

was just plain old, boring, mousey, Jean Grabble working

in the family business. Then you swept me off my feet and

now I'm Mrs Thomas Green.‟

She turned and did a little dance that brought her near

enough to Tom for him to make a grab for. Jean, who had

heard him, launched herself at him and co-operated in

proving that 'Egyptian PT' had more than one meaning.

Later, as they were getting changed for dinner, Tom said,

„And who told you that you were, plain old, boring,

mousey, Jean Grabble, may I ask?‟

„Well, I was! I knew that because my mirror told me.‟

„My dear, darling, beautiful, wife that glass was telling

you lies. When we get home it's going to be recycled as a

punishment. It's going to spend the next twenty years as a

cracked pint pot in a disused public house!‟ His attempt

at a maniacal cackle was a complete failure.

Over their meal in the crowded dining room they talked

about the next day‟s arranged trip.

„A sail along the Nile? Sounds like the one you promised

me, Tom. What was it now? Something about sailing on a

felucca from Aswan under the light of moon and being

served the best viands. Hmm... I like the viands bit, it

sounds better than food. Now where was I? Oh yes, under

the light of the moon and something about the chef‟s se-

164

cret recipe handed down from his forefathers.‟

„Got it in one Jean. Except, this one isn't, quite, as per-

fect as all that. We aren't in Aswan, it's going to be broad

daylight and the chef works in this hotel to American reci-

pes. But, other than that, it's exactly as I said. Except that

the boat has an engine, of course.‟

Jean swatted him with her napkin, pulled a face, and

called him a spoilsport.

In the Museum, Maxie, was busy installing the exhibits

sent from London to the satisfaction of Will and his team,

and their equivalent local conservators.

‘That looks to fine, Maxie,’ Suleema, the conservator re-

marked in Arabic. „It's a pity that you can't find the scarab

for him though. He looks incomplete without it.’

‘It's not for want of trying, Suleema. I was at Bluddschott

Hall last week trying to find it.’ Maxie was not above gath-

ering a bit of kudos with the exotically beautiful young

woman by talking in her language. ‘There are traces of it,

odd mentions in contents lists that could be it, until about

twenty years ago but all the clues died with Lady Lucinda.’

Will was standing looking over the case and wondering

where young Maxie had learned to speak Arabic, and

what he was saying, or was he chatting her up. Lucky dog!

Suleema put Will‟s thoughts into words. „Where did you

learn Arabic, Maxie? It's not something you learned to

come out here is it?‟

Maxie laughed, „No, I learnt it at play school and primary

school. All the kids came from different backgrounds and

you had to learn fast if you wanted to play anything.

Mainly it was Arabic, Polish, English and Hindustani. Us

kids learned very quickly.‟

„Four languages!‟ Suleema was impressed. „Maxie, I

165

don't suppose you can read hieroglyphics as well, can

you?‟

„Not really well, Suleema. Miss Spur was teaching them

to me but I wasn't any good at it.‟

„Miss. Spur! You don't mean Margaret Spur do you?‟

„Yes. She was my boss until I became a Museum Assis-

tant. Why do you know her?‟

„Yes, she's family. It's too difficult to explain but she's a

second, or maybe third, or fourth cousin on my mum's

side. She was here about ten years ago trying to find her

ancestors. She found us instead. Now! Let me see what

you know. What do these symbols say!‟ Suleema pointed

to the arm of the Bluddschott Mummy.

Maxie looked at the exposed, leather-like, skin. „It's not

too clear, but something like,‟ he changed into Arabic. „My

heart will … something, it's not clear … reside in the Black-

lands and ensure fertility and love for all time.‟

During this talk Will had wandered off to check on some-

thing. Suleema beamed at him. „Stop putting yourself

down! For somebody who, 'wasn't any good at it', that was

fantastic. Right now though it's lunch time and I'm treat-

ing you.‟

Jean trailed her hand in the water as it burbled and

chuckled along the side of the felucca, Tom was busy

watching her and wondering what life had in store for

them when they returned home. One thing he was sure of

was, that whatever it was, it'd be a lot of fun not to men-

tion some changes, however, his sisters had trained him

to know better than to say anything.

„No engine, Tom. Just the river, and the sails, and the

sun.‟

166

„Okay, my love, so I got that bit wrong, although I must

admit that it's an improvement, but I wasn't wrong about

the food though. A picnic lunch from the hotel with a bot-

tle of cola to wash it down with.‟

A little further down the boat deck another couple, a

young, quite good looking, European and a stunning

young woman with an exotic look about her, had their

heads close together.

„Tom,‟ Jean remarked, „I'm sure that that's the researcher

from the British Municipal Museum who was in Trentby

last week. Now what was his name?‟

„Crest,‟ Tom replied after a short pause to think about it,

„Maximilian Crest. Mum told me about him going around

asking questions about something to do with the

Bluddschott Mummy. It's odd that he's here, but I expect

he's on some sort of treasure hunting trip. Mind you that

girl looks a lot like those statues of Nefertiti so it could be

that she's the attraction.‟

„Keep those ideas to yourself, Thomas Green if you have

any lascivious thoughts keep them for me.‟ She chuckled

and smiled at him, „I like a bit of lascivious now and

again.‟ So saying she arched an eyebrow and preened.

Tom wasn't bothered about any other woman, he had

more than he could handle with this one.

On the landing stage the two couples came together.

„Excuse me, but aren‟t you Maximilian Crest from the Brit-

ish Municipal Museum?‟ Jean asked.

Much to Suleema's bewilderment Maxie replied with a

wide grin. „It's a fair cop, guv. I'll plead guilty and blame it

on a poor upbringing.‟ Then, „Do I know you?‟

„No,‟ said Jean. „But I've heard about you from my friends

in Trentby. You were asking about a scarab last week.‟

„Oh, yes, the Bluddschott mummy scarab. Why? Have

167

you any clues that I could follow up?‟ Maxie was on the

trail again. „Oh sorry! This is my colleague Miss Hassan, a

conservator at the local museum.‟ There were introduc-

tions all around.

Eventually Jean answered the question. „Yes, I know mo-

exactly where it is. It's not worth a lot, according to Lady

Lucy and Doctor Toogood. Tim Toogood says a few pounds

and Lady Lucy, bless her soul, told me about twenty.‟

„A bit more than that, Mrs Green.‟ Suleema replied. „If

you can prove you're the owner it could be worth a few

thousand. Although you could have problems with it. It

was illegally exported you see. But, if it was restored to its

rightful owner I'm sure that it would be okay.‟

„You mean that the mummy wants its scarab back, I sup-

pose, Miss Hassan?‟ Tom interjected. „Really! I thought

things had gone beyond that sort of superstition!‟

„This is Egypt, Mr Green,‟ Suleema answered, „Not your

green and pleasant England. Even if you don't believe in

them, here it does not do to anger the Gods of the An-

cients. So yes, I suppose you could say that he wants his

scarab returned.‟

Jean felt a coldness close in about her, not the physical

coldness which is a mere lack of heat, but as if her very

soul had been chilled. She clung to Tom for support.

„We're due at the Museum tomorrow morning,‟ she said.

„If I ask for you at the desk will you be able to talk to us,

do you think?‟

„Both Maxie and I will be there from about eight.‟

Suleema answered as they walked off the pier. „We‟ll see

you tomorrow. But, please. Don't let my talk about the an-

cient gods upset you. After all, they're my country‟s gods

not yours, so they'll have no power over you.‟

Jean wasn't so sure.

168

Much to the disgust of their courier, Jean and Tom

ditched the tour and asked for Miss Hassan and Mr Crest

at the museum entry desk. Two minutes later they were

escorted behind closed doors into the business of the gal-

lery revamp.

„There he is!‟ Suleema said, pointing to a mummy in an

open case. „That's the Bluddschott Mummy and, as you

can see, he's been robbed of his heart scarab.‟

Jean opened her shoulder bag and handed a gold and

blue object to Suleema. „That could be it. Lady Lucy told

me it was. She came here with her Uncle, sometime in the

1930s I believe. The mummy went home with him and

that went home with her. It wasn't stolen and neither was

it illegally exported, it was all on the report and the dig-

ging license allowed it, according to Lady Lucy.‟

Suleema and Maxie turned the scarab over. „Who put

this pin on it?‟ Suleema asked frowning.

„The lad in the shop I bought it from.‟ Jean told her. „It

had been donated to a charity shop. When I found it, it

was 50p plus another £1.50 for the pin.‟

Maxie and Suleema returned to the scarab. „If we take

this pin off we can see better,‟ Maxie stated, „but it looks

right. There‟s no damage.‟

A few minutes work in the conservation workshop and

the scarab came away pristine. „Is it me, or is it glowing!‟

Suleema asked the others.

„Quick, I‟ll get it into place on the mummy,‟ Maxie said

as he took the scarab and ran into the gallery hurdling

packing cases and bouncing off walls as he went.

The others followed as fast as they could. They arrived

in time to see Maxie put the scarab in place. They refused

to believe their eyes as the scarab seemed to give a little

wriggle as it settled back into the hollow that it had been

169

its home for many centuries. The glow, if it was a glow,

faded away and the gold and blue shone in the sunlight.

„I'll be jiggered! It's … I dunno ... I mean fairy stories

don't happen … do they?‟ Maxie put into words something

of the feelings of the group.

„No! And that didn't happen either!‟ The ever practical

Jean came to the fore. „Not unless you want to be taken

for some kind of headcase anyway. We know, and that's

enough.‟

Tom nodded in agreement adding, Suleema, can you is-

sue a press release please? One that says that, Suleema

Hassan, and Maximilian Crest, from the British Municipal

Museum, traced the scarab and, at great personal cost,

returned it to its rightful place.‟

Maxie joined in, „And you would also like to thank Tho-

mas Green and Jean Grabble of Trentby, for their assis-

tance in making the recovery.‟

Jean smiled, „You can both have the glory and Tom and

I will get on with our honeymoon. We'll probably see both

of you in Trentby next year, please drop in and have dinner

with us.‟

Suleema nodded and smiled, Tom and Maxie looked

stunned. Eh up! Now what! Jean looked like the cat who'd

got the cream, blew Suleema a kiss, took Tom's arm, then

went and rejoined the tour group. All of Tom's questions

were, except for an enigmatic smile, left unanswered.

170

171

Lord Lionel Bluddschott had disagreed with something

that ate him. Reggie hadn‟t been quite himself since his

lordship‟s rotund forequarters had wedged in his belly and

rotted.

Reggie had literally bitten off more than he could chew.

It was around his time, after several weeks of fasting on

the foreshore of the island in the middle of Bluddschott

Park lake, and grumbling in the manner only a Nile croco-

dile can grumble, Reggie came to a decision. A thought hit

his cerebral cortex like a thunder bolt.

Coincidentally this twinkle in the dark adapted eye of

the crocodile occurred right around the time of the sacred

scarab being reunited with the Bluddschott mummy far

away in the land of Reggie‟s birth, if a clutch of eggs can

be said to be born rather than laid.

That was another thought, getting laid, or the crocodil-

ian equivalent of such mundane matters of reproduction.

As if by magic, something occurred which gave Reggie

the push he needed to get off the beach and to do some-

thing positive. He slid into the water and glided to where

the disturbance to his peace was occurring.

It was a visit by Cynthia ever the inquisitive. A vision in

pink wellington boots Cynthia was patrolling the reed beds

and prodding with what looked like a long boat hook. She

had company.

Daphne Drinkwater was holding the torch and shining it

onto the surface of the lake.

„Are you sure about this, Cynthia?‟ asked Daphne who

was having a very bad week, what with her twin finding

herself a toy-boy with a brand new beamer and a liking for

fish-pie. „Do you really think Lady Bluddschott has done

him in?‟

„Hold that torch steady, I thought I saw something

172

move.‟

„Wouldn‟t he have floated? He was a lump after all?‟

With that criticism of her departed lover ringing in her

ears, Cynthia banged the boat hook down hard on the

reeds. Cruising, Reggie didn‟t like the look of the sharp

end of that dangerous weapon and did a hasty detour

round the end of the lake he didn‟t often visit. It so hap-

pened that since Lady Lucy‟s demise, no-one from

Bluddschott Hall had taken on the duty of drainage main-

tenance and thus the sluice gate was hanging by a

thread. Reggie blinked in surprise. The swinging gate was

smashed open in a swish of his tail. He was free. Free,

free at last ...

Just like Nellie the elephant, Reggie figuratively packed

his truck and said goodbye to the life of captivity. He was

a free crocodile. His days of servitude to Lady Lucy were

over. He sniffed the breeze, yep, all he needed was to fol-

low the brook to river and the river to the sea. He had the

stars to guide him and the smell of home in his nostrils.

„What was that?‟ dithered Daphne, crossing her legs, „I

wish there was a ladies handy. All this cold water‟s playing

havoc with my waterworks.‟

„Nothing, only the sluice gate clanging,‟ muttered Cyn-

thia squelching out of the reed bed and completely over-

looking a chewed foreleg wearing a hand-made brogue

which was lodged close by the toe of her shocking pink

Wellington boot.

173

Writers taking part in this project were:

Clive Hewitt, Penny Wheat, Yan Watwood,

Steph Spiers, Anne Picken, Peter Shilston and

Edith Holland, together with Sanjaya, Judy, Pat and

Liz, Alice and Elizabeth, Yazz and others far too

numerous to mention in the early plotting stages.

174

Thank you for taking an

interest in RBW

projects and we hope you have

enjoyed another romp through

the streets of Trentby.

Trentby‟s madcap characters can also

be found romping around in

Fare Deal

&

Are We There Yet?

Perhaps you have

always fancied having a go

at creative writing.

It is never too late to start.

Watch out for our trampling on the

legend of the knights of Camelot in the

near future.

175

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

The Egyptian images were donated to this project by

the writer and historian, Mr Peter Shilston, to whom we all

offer a big vote of thanks.

176

Thank you for

joining RBW on this

romp through time and

suspension of disbelief.

We hope you have

enjoyed the fun and,

perhaps, may be

inspired to pick up a

pen and have a go

yourself. After all, if we

can do it, anyone of our

age can have a go ...

PS Keep a sharp eye

out for Reggie.

He’ll be getting

hungry by now ...