Strangeways to Oldham (3 page)

‘Don't be absurd!' she spluttered, her mouth full of tea. ‘I'm glad of the company, to be quite honest, and we have known each other for a very long time.'

‘But with an exceedingly long gap in between.'

‘Certainly! But we're still the same people, aren't we? I know I haven't changed my nature very much, and from what I've seen, neither have you. Now look here, Hugo: we can be lonely separately, or we can choose to be in company together. Which is the most attractive option to you? I know which I'd choose, and I have. When one is older, sometimes the luxury of one's pride and independence is something one shouldn't even attempt to pay for. Do you want to go back to that dreadful home?'

‘No,' agreed Hugo, and addressed himself to a clean plate, for toast and marmalade. ‘Do you remember how I used to carry you around on my shoulders, when you were still quite a tot?'

‘Of course I do,' she replied. ‘I sometimes wonder if it was that lofty view that made me a bit haughty at times. One never knows, does one?'

A little later, as Beauchamp cleared away the breakfast things, Lady Amanda decided to make some telephone calls, and, spotting Hugo over by the window, she called over to him, ‘Do you think you could get me my little address book? It's on the whatnot.'

Looking round quizzically, Hugo enquired mildly, ‘What whatnot?'

‘The window whatnot,'

‘What's on the window whatnot?'

‘I'll get it myself. If we go on like this, we're going to slide into the “Who's on next?” sketch that Abbot and Costello did.'

‘What?' asked Hugo.

‘Never mind! I just want to make a few calls, then ring for an appointment for you with my doctor, and check out a couple of estate agents about getting tenants for your house. And you can ring up the one who's trying to sell it, and tell him to take it off the market. Then, we've got to work out what to do about the “you-know-what”.'

‘What “you-know-what”? Is the “you-know-what” on the window whatnot, or what?' Hugo replied, nearly restarting the surreal conversation that Lady Amanda had just forcibly ended, before it got out of control, and drove her mad.

Chapter Three

After a very intense hour on the phone, Lady Amanda was as good as her word earlier, and instructed Beauchamp on the alterations she required, with the motor from the bicycle being suitably adapted and transferred to Mummy's best red trike, then mounted her own machine, having decided that she owed it to the police, to give them a crack at solving this case of murder she and Hugo had uncovered.

She arrived in South Street in Belchester, where the police station was situated, just beyond The Goat and Compasses public house. Leaving her tricycle firmly chained up, she went through the police station doors and presented herself at the desk, where a fresh-faced uniformed officer sat, reading the sports pages of a daily paper that she would never allow to darken the letter box of her own home.

‘Can I help you, madam?' he asked, pushing the newspaper aside and looking up, his facial expression freezing a little, as he noticed that she was neither young, nor pretty.

‘I sincerely hope so, young man,' she replied, thinking that he looked no older than a schoolboy. Wherever were the police recruiting from nowadays? It'd be from the nursery next. ‘I wish to report a murder,' she stated baldly, and watched his face change from slight disappointment, to ‘we've got a right one, here'.

‘How can I help you with this “murder”, madam?' he asked politely, the word murder obviously carrying inverted commas, and with a sarcastic gleam in his eye.

‘I'd like to speak to the officer in charge, if you don't mind. Murder is a serious matter, and should be treated as such, don't you think?'

‘Of course, madam. I'll ring upstairs for the inspector, if you'll be so good as to wait here.'

Lady Amanda took a seat on a hard wooden bench on the wall opposite the desk, but her hearing was still acute, and she heard the young man's end of the conversation without any difficulty. ‘Got a right one down here. Some batty old biddy wanting to report a murder. Wants to see someone in charge. Do you think you could have a word with her?'

The answer must have been in the affirmative, for he proceeded to conduct her up a flight of stairs and into a small, unaired office that smelled of sweat and ‘fags smoked out of the window'.

In five minutes, she found herself back outside once more, feeling both silly, and furious at the same time; silly, because the inspector – too young for his rank, in her opinion – had treated her as if she were senile, and furious, because she had let him get away with it, which wasn't like her at all. She hadn't had much to do with the police, in her time, however, and it could have been that which threw her so far out of her normal commanding and forthright character.

More likely, however, it was the insolent and superior attitude of the inspector, who had asked her if she thought she was some sort of ‘Miss Marple' character, and enquiring if she watched a lot of detective programmes on what he had referred to as ‘the telly'. She had retorted with as much dignity as she could muster, by informing him that: A) Miss Marple was a fictional character, B) Miss Marple was portrayed as a very elderly lady, and C), Miss Marple managed to traverse the decades without ageing a day, and that, as she was none of these three things, she certainly did not see herself in such a role; and she marched out of the police station in high dudgeon.

So, that was that! The police were going to take no notice of her whatsoever. Granted, she hadn't brought the cocktail glass with her, but they'd probably just have taken it, washed it up, and put it away behind the police social club bar.

So, she'd hang on to it. And she and Hugo would find out who killed poor old Reggie Pagnell themselves.

She rode back to BelchesterTowers via the back routes, taking her time, to allow her temper to subside, and to try to come to terms with the fact that the police thought her a silly old fool. As she entered the grounds, she looked across to the building where she had spent her entire life (when not at boarding school).

There it stood, its red brick dulled by age now, though it was less than two hundred years old, with its silly moat empty, overgrown by weeds. There it stood, with its daft towers, and all its unrealistic fairy-tale architecture, and she loved it. Tears came to her eyes as she thought of all the happy times she had spent there throughout her life, accompanied by tears of self-pity, at how she had been treated at the police station.

Well, she had Hugo for company now, and they'd show that snotty inspector how to track down a murderer, and then who would be laughing? Eh?

When she had parked her trike, she went into the morning room and encountered Hugo taking a leisurely look at the newspaper. Looking up, he was immediately aware that Manda was not herself – something had happened that had ‘got to her'. ‘What's up, old thing?' he asked, in a gentle voice.

‘Oh, nothing, Chummy. I've just discovered that when one is old, nobody notices one, or listens to one any more. The elderly become invisible, and I feel that, today, I have joined their silent and unnoticed ranks.'

‘Rot, Manda! You? Old? Utter and complete tommyrot!'

‘Very gallant of you, Hugo, but I have to face the fact that I'm just a meddling old woman in most people's eyes.'

‘What's happened to make you feel like that?' asked Hugo, with concern. This wasn't the Manda that he remembered and … was – well – very fond of, at least.

‘I went to the police station to report Reggie Pagnell's murder, and was treated as a silly old trout with an over-active imagination,' she informed him, looking thoroughly crestfallen.

‘How dare they! We must speak to the Chief Constable, now. That really takes the biscuit!' Hugo retorted, now full of indignation.

‘Times have moved on, since we were in our prime, Hugo. The Chief Constable's a young man in his mid-forties, I believe, and although Daddy knew his father, I predict that if we put our little problem before him, he'd just think it was dementia setting in, as so many people now presume, about anything esoteric, said by someone over pensionable age.'

‘Then we'll just have to investigate it ourselves. Can't have a murderer wandering about out there, scot free and undetected.'

‘I hoped you'd say that, Hugo. That's what I'd more or less decided myself, on the way home. I just didn't know if you'd go along with it or not. I'll start with the nursing home: see what details I can get about this “nephew”, and about when and where the funeral's to be held.'

‘That's more like my Manda of old. Up and at ʼem! Don't let ʼem grind you down! When are you thinking of going?'

‘After luncheon,' she replied, tugging on a chintz bell-pull to summon Beauchamp, and announce that they were ready for their meal.

Unnervingly, Beauchamp slipped through the door the moment she grabbed the bell-pull, and she gave a little shriek, at this immediate attendance upon her wishes. ‘I wish you wouldn't do that, Beauchamp. At least give a little cough, to warn me you're just about to appear, like a pantomime villain, as usual.'

‘Sorry, my lady. And it's Beecham,' the man declared, his dignity not ruffled one jot.

‘Tell me, did you study French at school,
Beauchamp
?' she asked, emphasising the pronunciation of his surname.

‘No, my lady. I studied woodwork. But it's still Beecham.' And with that, he disappeared out of the room, to bring the food to table in the breakfast room, where it was cosier to eat, at this time of day, than in the vast panelled dining room.

Over their meal, the proposed investigation banned until after they had finished eating, the conversation was of a nostalgic nature – not unexpectedly, given the circumstances that had suddenly thrown them together again, after such a long time.

‘Nice name that – Amanda,' Hugo mumbled through a mouthful of food. ‘Lady Amanda, now that's just the same as the woman in those Campion books by whatshername – Margery Allingham. That's the chap. Lady Amanda Fitton, wasn't it? Did you ever read those books, Manda?' he asked.

‘Actually, Mummy named me after her. The writer only had the copyright on the books, you know, not the characters' names as well. But Mummy loved all those old murder mysteries, and I read them when I was growing up. Used to imagine it was me, marrying silly young Albert. And here I am, never managed to find Mr Right, or even Mr Wright – that's with a ‘W', Hugo, as one can't hear spelling. Joke!'

‘Jolly good! Play on words. I seem to remember you were rather good at those, when we were younger, but that one definitely needs to be written down to appreciate it.'

After a few seconds of silence, Hugo declared, ‘Damn shame, you being orphaned like that!'

‘Damned lucky escape, if you ask me!'

‘Whatever do you mean, Manda? That sounds rather cruel, and that's unlike you.'

‘It's just sheer logic, old bean. The only people who never have to face up to the loss of their parents, are those who die young, and I never had any intentions of doing that.'

‘Ah, see what you mean. True enough! You always were a sensible old thing.'

‘And not so much of the “old”. I've had a bellyful of that today already, and you're a good few years my senior, if my memory really isn't failing.'

‘Touché!'

‘Oh, by the way, Beauchamp has transferred that motor thingy from Daddy's bicycle to mother's best tricycle, so we can get out and about.'

‘Bravo, Beauchamp!' Hugo replied, waving his fork about, in his excitement. ‘We could be like those Hell's Angels chappies, what?'

‘More like Hell's Wrinklies! And mind your fork! You nearly chucked your food on the floor, waving it about like that.'

‘Sorry, Manda.'

After coffee and a suitable period for digestion, Lady Amanda mounted her three-wheeled steed and set off to see what she could learn from the rest home where she had discovered Hugo incarcerated, the day before.

She had a legitimate family reason for knowing when, and where, Reggie's funeral would take place, and the same thing applied to getting in touch with his so-called nephew, to pass on her condolences. She'd present a humbler version of herself today, and explain away her behaviour of the day before as shock, pure and simple.

If anyone made a fuss about her ‘kidnapping' of Hugo, she would say that had also been due to the shock of Reggie's demise, and stumbling upon her old friend, after so long a time. She could certainly tell them that he was happy and settled, and that they needn't bother themselves about his welfare any more. He would be more than adequately cared for at BelchesterTowers. Maybe the address would impress them. Maybe her own name would, too, for she didn't remember formally introducing herself on her last visit, and thought that remedying that might improve their treatment of her no end.

She duly parked her trike and chained it to a sturdy chain-link fence and then entered, her hopes of success high. The woman on duty at reception was the same one as the day before and, on seeing Lady Amanda approach her for the second time in two days, cringed, and put her hand under the desk, presumably to ring a panic bell.

‘Good afternoon, young lady,' cooed Lady Amanda, holding out her hand in greeting. ‘I'd like to apologise for my rather excitable behaviour yesterday, and introduce myself properly. I am Lady Amanda Golightly of BelchesterTowers.'

That seemed to have done the trick, and by the time that Matron arrived at the double, prepared for anything, after the panic bell having been used, she surveyed the figure of Lady Amanda, and inhaled hugely, to give her a piece of her mind.

It was only the immediate intervention of the receptionist that deflated her bubble. ‘This is Lady Amanda Golightly of BelchesterTowers,' the woman informed the purple-faced tyrant, ‘and she's come to apologise for yesterday. Shock, you know, at finding one old friend dead, and another resident here.'

That was Matron efficiently torpedoed, and the sour-faced woman had to force a smile on to her disapproving countenance. ‘So pleased to be introduced to you at last, my lady,' she dripped, shaking hands with a hand like a wet fish. ‘What can we do for you today? Let you remove another resident or two? Why not the whole lot, then you can have a very jolly time at The Towers.

Hmph! The woman wasn't quite dead in the water yet, thought Lady Amanda. She'd have to continue with the charm offensive. ‘Apart from apologise, all I wanted was to get details of poor old Reggie Pagnell's funeral, and maybe his nephew's address, so that I could convey my condolences on the loss of his uncle.' She sounded almost like Mary Poppins, so anxious was she to get her hands on the information she needed to start the investigation.

But Matron wasn't giving in that easily. It took more than Lady Amanda on her best behaviour to make her crumble and fly the white flag. ‘I'm afraid we're not permitted to give out personal information about our “guests”,' she intoned, a wolf-like smile shaping her lips. ‘However …' Here, she held up a hand, to stem the flow that was preparing itself to fall from Lady Amanda's sneering mouth.

‘However,' she repeated, ‘we can provide you with the name of Mr Pagnell's solicitor, who will provide you with any information he deems necessary, in the circumstances.'

‘Thank you so much.' Lady Amanda was back in purring mode. The solicitor's address would probably net her more than she was ever likely to get from this old harridan, and if she needed any inside knowledge about Reggie's residence here, Enid Tweedie could prove to be just the right cat's paw to get her insider information.

If Lady Amanda footed the bill, she was sure Enid would not be averse to a few days – a week at the most – convalescing here, and being her ‘agent' on the inside. It would also give her another excuse to be here on the premises, as she still might need to return.