Ten Lords A-Leaping (8 page)

He obediently filled first Amiss’s and then her glass, bowed, wished them ‘
Bon appétit
’ and withdrew.

‘You’re not descended from the Duke of Wellington by any chance, are you? You seem to have as short a way with the French as he did.’

‘I wish I were. He’s always been my hero. A girl can’t have a better role model. He understood like nobody else the importance of robustness.’

‘Speaking of which, what more do you know about Brother Francis? Is he really what he seems?’

‘All
Who’s Who
reveals is he was an only son, was educated at Marlborough and later joined the Franciscans. Not your common-or-garden Roman-Catholic Franciscans, mind you – the Anglo-Catholic lot. Much more upper-crusty. Then he began to produce verse and short stories which, God help us, became popular in women’s magazines and were collected under titles like
Our Furry Friends
or
My Brother the Donkey
.’

‘It’s anthropomorphism gone mad.’

‘Yes, but it’s a powerful strain in the English character at the wimpish end among the sort of people who think their dogs read their minds, their cats think deep thoughts and dolphins are smarter than nuclear physicists. Speaking of cats, how’s Plutarch?’

Amiss groaned. ‘On my conscience. I haven’t yet retrieved her from the cattery. Haven’t worked up the courage.’

‘The trouble with you is…’

‘Is that I’m a wimp. I know.’

‘I wasn’t going to be so tactless as to say it.’

‘Makes a change.’

‘First you allow yourself to be blackmailed emotionally into having a cat you don’t want.’

‘Which was weak of me.’

‘Then you fail to make the best of it by enjoying her.’

‘How can I enjoy Plutarch? She’s demanding, bossy and badly behaved.’

‘Like me?’

‘At least you don’t swing out of people’s curtains and bring me rats in your teeth. No, I have a grudging respect for Plutarch, I wish to see her well looked after and I’ve even had the occasional fleeting twinge of affection, but enjoy her I don’t. If you want her I’ll sign the adoption papers on the spot.’

‘I doubt if I can manage more than short-term fosterage. After the unfortunate episode in the kitchen last time I put her up I would probably meet mass revolt if I announced I was keeping her. But if you like I’ll take her until next week. You won’t be able to look after her anyway, since you’ll be away this weekend.’

‘I will?’ He looked at her with deep suspicion.

‘Didn’t he tell you? You’ve been invited to stay with Reggie Poulteney and go hunting.’

‘How can I go hunting? I can’t ride a rocking horse.’

‘In a car and on foot. You’ve got to get the smell of the chase in your nostrils.’

He groaned. ‘Oh, if I must, I must. Why aren’t you coming?’

‘I wish I could. I can hear the sound of the horn and the baying of the hounds and the smell of the morning dew She took a meditative sip and looked starrily into the middle distance.

‘That was well up to the standard of Brother Francis. Answer my question.’

‘I have to be hostess for a St Martha’s Old Girls’ gathering which,
inter alia
, I hope will raise some more loot.’

‘You can’t abandon me alone with that unspeakable old bore.’

‘Tommy Beesley will be there.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Come, come. There’s more to Tommy than there seems. He was a major-general once, you know. And was decorated for conspicuous gallantry in Korea.’

‘Good God!’

‘I admit I find it baffling too, but we’re obviously judging too much by appearances.’

Amiss shrugged. ‘Will Sid be there? He’s more my type.’

‘Doubt it. He’s in his late seventies now, don’t forget. Tends to avoid the open air unless it’s pretty balmy.’

‘I know Bertie doesn’t hunt, but will he come along to plot?’

‘Tied up, I gather, at a Leader of the Opposition’s hush-hush “where are we going?” hugger-mugger with his intimates.’

‘So it’s just me, Reggie and Tommy. Terrific. I hope you realize this will probably put me off hunting for life. Are you prepared to take that risk.’

‘I like risks.’ The baroness finished the last forkful, laid down her cutlery with a clatter, smacked her lips and clicked her fingers. ‘
Garçon
,’ she said in an execrable French accent. The waiter came running. ‘
Une autre bouteille
.’ He bowed and scurried off. ‘Come on, Robert. Eat up. You need to build up your strength for the weekend ahead at Shapely Bottom Hall.’

‘Is it seriously called that?’

‘Very suitable for a country seat, surely.’ She cackled. ‘Come on. You know English rural names are daft. That’s no madder than “Lower Slaughter” or “Nether Wallop”.’

‘Where is it, how do I get there, when do they want me, what do I wear?’

‘Rutland. Tommy will ring you with the details. You’ll be travelling with him.’

‘Oh, no. I can’t stand it.’

‘That’s the wrong attitude. You must throw yourself into this. Shapely Bottom Hall is not for the faint-hearted. Besides, I want them to admire and love you.’

‘Thanks, Jack.’ Amiss finished his wine and held his glass out gratefully to the hovering waiter.

Chapter 9

«
^
»

How Lord Beesley had ever got to be a leader of men was a question that had been preoccupying Amiss. Even though Deptford had told him a few stories of Beesley’s courage and dash on the hunting field, they seemed incompatible with a voice like a neurotic nanny goat and an obsession with trivia. But then, recollecting some senior civil servants for whom he had worked and ministers he had known, Amiss reminded himself that you got Tommy Beesleys in positions of authority in every walk of life. That thought just about carried him through their first conversation.

‘Are you quite sure you’ve got that, young man?’

‘Yes, thank you. All absolutely clear.’

‘Just repeat the directions once more.’

‘It’s OK, Tommy. I’ve written it all down.’

‘No, no, you must set my mind at rest. It would never do if you got lost. We can’t have that happening.’

‘Well, it would hardly be the end of western civilization as we know it,’ said Amiss irritably.

‘What’s that?’

‘Oh, nothing. Very well. I’ll meet you at the entrance to the platform from which the four-forty-five to Market Harborough departs.’

‘Which station, which station?’

‘St Paneras.’ He didn’t say ‘you old idiot’, but it was a close-run thing. ‘I’ll have a first-class ticket.’

‘And if I’m not there?’

‘If you haven’t arrived three minutes before the train leaves, I’ll board it without you.’

‘And I’ll do the same. You didn’t mention that.’

‘That was implicit.’

‘No, no. In any operation, one can leave nothing to chance. Detail is all.’

Amiss kept his patience. There was no point in getting on the wrong side of this old fool before the weekend had even started. He continued. ‘We will leave the train at Market Harborough and catch the six-twenty-seven to The Bottoms, where we will be met by pony and trap and taken to Shapely Bottom Hall.’

‘And the clothes, the clothes. You haven’t forgotten about the clothes?’

‘Dinner jacket, hacking jacket, Wellingtons, Barbour and all the accoutrements.’

‘Make sure you don’t forget anything. Reggie is very particular.’

‘Only a cad comes improperly clad,’ chimed in Amiss cooperatively, having heard the phrase perhaps ten times in the preceding twenty-five minutes of telephonic fuss.

‘All right.’ Beesley sounded reluctant to let go, but even he had run out of minutiae. ‘Perhaps we should talk about arrangements for returning.’

‘We’ll have ample time to do that during our journey.’

‘If we both catch the same train.’

‘Even if we don’t catch the same train, Tommy, we’ll still have plenty of time to discuss it during the weekend. Forgive me, I have to rush. If I don’t put my dinner jacket into the cleaners now it won’t be back in time for Friday.’

That horrifying possibility did the trick. ‘Go immediately, you must go immediately.’

‘Thanks, Tommy. Goodbye, I look forward to Friday.’

‘Goodbye. Oh, just…’

Amiss put the phone down firmly and dialled his friend Detective Sergeant Ellis Pooley.

‘It’s like old times, raiding your wardrobe. So that’s a hacking jacket, is it? Hmm, I hadn’t realized you still rode.’

Pooley was rummaging in a chest of drawers. ‘Ah, here we are. A proper stock. Do you know how to wear it?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Pooley fussed at Amiss’s neck for a couple of minutes and then pushed him towards the mirror.

‘My goodness, I look almost like a gentleman. Fine feathers really do make fine birds.’

‘Now boots.’ Pooley reached into the back of his wardrobe and produced a pair of magnificent, highly polished brown riding boots. Amiss looked at them longingly. ‘ ’Fraid not,’ he said. ‘It’s wellies I need.’

‘You can’t ride in wellies.’

‘I’m not riding. I’ve only ridden once in my life and that was on a donkey in Yarmouth. I’m following the hunt by car and on foot.’

‘Well then, you don’t need all this stuff. Duffel coat and jeans would be fine.’

‘You don’t know the Marquess of Poulteney.’

A happy grin spread over Pooley’s rather serious features. ‘Poulteney? Oh, but I do.’

‘Don’t tell me. He’s a mate of your old man’s.’

‘Well, let’s say that on the rare occasions that the pater drops by the House of Lords, Poulteney would be one of the first he would seek out to fulminate with.’

‘Your father hunts?’

‘A bit. He’s not an obsessive like Poulteney, but he does his bit of hunting and his bit of shooting and his bit of fishing with reasonable regularity. Keeps him out of mischief.’

‘And you?’

Pooley looked sheepish. ‘Used to hunt a bit in school holidays. Gave it up on principle when I was at university. But I have to admit that a couple of times recently when I was at home I couldn’t resist having a go again.’

‘Ah, Ellis, this is another way in which you’re becoming encouragingly less priggish as the years go by.’

‘You, on the other hand, become ever more patronizing. Now, have we finished? I want to hear about whatever nonsense you’re up to over a drink.’

‘That’s it, I think.’ Amiss checked his list. ‘Barbour, hacking jacket, stock, riding crop.’

‘What do you want a riding crop for if you’re not going riding?’

‘Hunt saboteurs.’

‘Ah, you’re in for an exciting weekend.’

‘Oh yes. Wellies, please, Ellis.’

‘Green OK?’

‘Natch.’

Amiss surveyed himself. ‘What a dash I would have cut with your riding boots. These are not the same at all.’ He shrugged and began to change back into his own clothes. ‘Thanks, Ellis. I’ll look after these to the best of my ability.’

‘If you’re going to be tangling with sabs, it’s going to be more important to look after yourself to the best of your ability. There are some nasty ones about. Here ’ – Pooley reached into another drawer and produced a silver hip flask – ‘you’d better take this as well. If the weather is cold and rainy and the sabs are making their presence felt, Dutch courage may be required.’

‘Crikey, things must be serious if Ellis Pooley is recommending me to drink whisky on a Saturday morning.’

Amiss pulled on his sweater. Pooley by now had put the pristine wellies in a large carrier bag and was placing it with his other possessions in an expensive, if slightly battered, soft leather suitcase.

‘You’d better have the case too. I expect you’ve got something modern. Modern is suspect.’ He closed the catches and handed the case to Amiss.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now, how about some gin?’

The journey did not begin auspiciously. Although Amiss was at the appointed place ten minutes early, Beesley had already been waiting for twenty-five and was in a state of high anxiety.

‘I feared you had gone to the wrong platform for, most confusingly, there is, at the same time, a slow train which also goes to Market Harborough and who knows, you might have forgotten my precise instructions. You’ve cut it very fine indeed, I must say. Will we get a seat, I ask myself?’ He plunged through to the platform and Amiss had to accelerate to catch up with him, surprised at how fit the old fool appeared to be. They rushed down the platform and, rather to Beesley’s disappointment, found an empty first-class carriage, where he managed through dither to spin out to five minutes much carry-on about where the luggage would be most safely and conveniently stowed and whether they should sit beside each other or opposite. When they settled, some of the worry disappeared from Beesley’s face, only to return as Amiss got up and said firmly, ‘I’m going to get us a drink.’

‘But they won’t serve you yet. The train has not yet started to move.’

‘I want to be at the front of the queue. Now what would you like?’

It took no more than four minutes for Beesley to decide that Scotch and ginger was the wisest choice of those most likely to be available. The queue was already long when Amiss joined it. He didn’t care. Standing in a packed corridor reading Whyte-Melville’s
Market Harborough
was pure joy compared to consorting with the Lord Beesley.

By the time they reached The Bottoms, between the fuss over changing trains and his near-hopeless attempt to elicit useful information. Amiss was almost exhausted. For Beesley was expansive only on such subjects as the likely disaster should there be a hold-up, as there often was on Fridays, and they missed the connecting train. More strategic worries like what would become of the whole hunting fraternity if the battle was lost were interspersed with reminiscences of happy boyhood hunts accompanied by incredible detail about which horse, which hounds, which huntsmen, which hunt and the rest of it.

‘How many will there be at Shapely Bottom?’ cut in Amiss, when Beesley drew breath.

‘Oh, just a small family party, I suspect. Reggie doesn’t entertain much since his wife died.’