Lies in Lashbrook 3

 

 

Chapter 3

 

“So, how much train traffic goes through here?” asked Jeff.

“Not a lot. Fred doesn’t have a deputy; he turns out in his pyjamas for the milk train and goes home for breakfast before the mainline trains into Oxford and London for those going off to work in one of the cities,” Alexander explained. “There’s a few during the day for shopping, and the return trains. There’s a late night train back from the city as well, for those who have gone up for shows, but whichever ticket clerk or ticket collector is on duty calls for Fred after six in the evening if needed.  Fred coerced the Busby brothers and Les Edgington into the chorus, the ones who do the night shift managed to escape.”

Jeff laughed.

“How many people live in Lashbrook?” he asked.

“Around two hundred and fifty,” said Alexander. “And to be honest, the players only account for about one in ten. The farmers and farmworkers don’t have time or energy, though they like to come and see the show.  And of course, the players don’t meet on Tuesdays.”

“Why not?” asked Jeff.

“Scouting for boys and Girl-Guides,” said Alexander. “I’m avoiding being roped in. Mapp, the local bobby, runs Scouts, with help from the vicar and Oliver Oliver, who is part valet to the vicar and part sexton and don’t ask questions about the alcoholic smells from the crypt where he distils the dregs of the communion wine. I don’t ask questions and he tells me no lies. He’s mostly harmless and not worth running in. He hasn’t blown the church up yet, anyway.”

“Optimist,” said Jeff. “No, he’s no large scale criminal.  And in the country, in a crypt surrounded by a churchyard, likely enough nobody is going to complain.”

Alexander released the breath he had not realised he was holding; Jeff could be strait-laced about things like alcohol violations, but plainly even Jeff could see that Oliver was harmless. It was up to young Mapp to warn Oliver if his hooch brewing became a problem.

“There’s going to be a meeting in the village hall, which is the Nissan hut over there, this afternoon,” said Alexander.  “You’ll meet most of the other players then.”

 

 

Fred Chaffinch took control of the meeting.

“All here as could come? Good, good,” he said.  “Oliver’s dropped out of Koko, as some of you know, but he always was a bit flaky, so I’m not displeased. Miss Thripp is stepping up as Katisha, because she’s a real trooper, leaving Mr. Armitage as Koko.”

“He’s a newcomer, can he cope with changing roles?” asked a girl in the chorus.

“Bless you, Maud, Mr. Armitage knows every word Mr. Gilbert ever wrote,” said Fred. “Here, Mr. A, you show them.”

Alexander obediently sang,

“Taken from a county jail

By a set of curious chances

Liberated then on bail

On my own recognisances.

Wafted by a fav’ring gale

As one sometimes is in trances

To a height that few can scale

Save by long and weary dances;

So incredible a tale

That may rank with most romances.”

 “Adventurous, not incredible,” said Fred. “Carry on!”

Alexander obediently sang the partial repeat as the chorus joined in, to

“Surely never had a male so adventurous a tale!”

The chorus carried on,

“Defer, defer, to the lord high executioner!” to the end of the piece as Alexander acknowledged their bows and deference with a show of some deprecation.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Armitage, I like that.  Playing Koko as a modest man with much to be modest about,” said Fred.  “Any other objections?”

There were none, but a few mutters were made about Miss Thripp as Katisha.

“Thank you, I am saving my voice and anticipating it improving,” said Miss Thripp. “And if it does not, then I shall play the lack of vocals for comedy value.”

“And that’s a real trooper for you,” boomed Fred. “We’ll have to shorten Koko’s kimono; Oliver is even taller than Mr. A.”

“I think I should be Alexander to the troupe," said Alexander. “He’s sufficiently taller than me that I could play it into the modest man concept, occasionally tripping on it, literally occupying the robes of a greater man.”

“If you can do that without tripping seriously, Mr. Armitage, it should get a laugh or two,” said Fred, pleased.

“Pooh-bah might stand on the back of it from time to time; Sam and I can sort something out between us,” said Alexander. If the wine did not work, at least other comedic figures would cut the cruel exposure of Miss Thripp.

“Who’s playing Pitti-Sing and Peep-bo?” asked Maud.

“It won’t be you, Haddock, you’re too reedy,” said another girl.  Maud flushed as Alexander placed her in his mind as the girl in the chippie, likely Braithwaite’s daughter. Calling her ‘Haddock’ seemed rather unkind, but young people nowadays could be very cruel.

“Now then!” said Fred. “Maggie and Emma Squires are understudies until Miss Henderson and her friend can come. Some people have to work, you know.”

“At weekends?” asked Maud.

“She’s a trainee archaeologist,” said Alexander. “And digging goes on when the weather is fine. Both are practising and will be here.”

“Why are we bringing in outsiders?” asked Maud with a whine to her voice. “This is the Lashbrook players, not the Lashbrook player and some posh Londoners.”

“You appear to be labouring under a misapprehension, Miss Braithwaite,” said Alexander. “Ida and Gladys were born and raised in Lashbrook; the Hendersons are an old family, as are the Prices, if not so elevated. Surely you were a Girl Guide with Ida Henderson and Gladys Price?”

“Oh!” said Maud. “Yes, of course. But you…”

“I was a friend of Basil Henderson,” said Alexander. “I know he painted scenery for the players; Ida has his talent and will doubtless also help out.”

Maud subsided.

“Damn fine artist, Basil Henderson,” said Fred Chaffinch.  “I have a sketch he made of me as the Mikado from the first time we did it, only with my stationmaster’s hat, making Mr. David Henderson ride on the buffer.” He looked suddenly embarrassed, but Alexander laughed.

“David and I get on better the less we have to be together,” he said.

There were several more or less supressed sniggers.

“Him, he’s stuck up,” said Maud.

“Somewhat, but more than that, he has trouble expressing himself,” said Alexander.

“Well, you would stick up for him, you being gentry too,” said Maud.

“I have to stick up for him because he’s my friend’s brother, and Basil would expect me to look out for him,” said Alex. “Shall we get on with the rehearsal?”

Many people needed their lines and lyrics in front of them still, but they had an idea of the shape of the operetta, and the rehearsal went well. Dan Reckitt, the village postman, sang the part of Nanki-poo very well, and being slender of build fit very well with being a ‘thing of rags and patches.’ He played his own guitar with considerable skill, having disguised it with a square of cardboard over it to look more like a samisen, which he had painted black with a ferocious golden dragon wrapping around it as decoration.

“They take it all very seriously,” said Jeff.

“Oh, yes, totally,” said Alexander. “Sometimes a little too seriously, I suspect; Fred makes amusing stories, but occasionally I believe egos can flare with some need for smoothing things over.”

He was up next for a duet with Miss Thripp. He approached her, cautiously, did a prat-fall, and fell to his knees in front of her.

“He thinks he can impress me,” said Miss Thripp, from behind her fan, improvising. “But I will not forget he robbed me of my bridegroom!” she returned to script. “Let him kneel!”

“Good! Good! We’ll keep that in,” said Fred.

Miss Thripp’s voice faltered as she was singing the last number, ‘There is beauty in the bellow of the blast,’ which coincided with the arrival of a young man who bore a slight resemblance to Miss Thripp, but whose chin was much weaker.

“My poor aunt! But it was a brave effort,” he said, coming forward as she whispered to a finish.

“Oh, Edgar, dear, have you come to walk me home? How kind you are,” said Miss Thripp.

“Why, I brought my car to collect you, Aunt Betty,” said Edgar.

“There was no need for that, dear boy, I’m not an invalid and it’s scarcely a step,” said Miss Thripp.

“Why, it’s fully a quarter of a mile, and the night air cannot be good for your throat,” said Edgar.

“Ah, you are kind to me,” said Miss Thripp, “but another time, do just walk over; I don’t want to become feeble.”

Edgar laughed.

“You hearty country folk!” he said. “But I will do my best to look out for your interests, Aunt Betty, you deserve a bit of cossetting!”

“So kind,” murmured Miss Thripp.

“I wonder why I want to knock his teeth down his throat?” Alexander muttered to Jeff.

“I don’t know, but he affects me the same way too,” Jeff replied. “Though he looks to me to be everything I thought you were; a privileged young wastrel with expensive tastes and no visible means of support.”

“If you ever thought I was like that, I’m not surprised you loathed me,” muttered Alexander. “Oh, well, he may want to privately laugh at Miss Thripp, but five ‘ll get you ten my mother’s jollop will sort her out completely.”

“I never bet on certainties,” said Jeff.

Miss Thripp left, and Alex drove Jeff back to Heywood Hall, which was the proper name of the Tudor mansion.

“I’ve half a mind to change the name to Copper’s Cottage or something,” laughed Alexander, as they turned in the drive.

“If it was at the seaside, you could call it ‘The Copper’s Beach,’ and have people asking plaintively about copper beech trees,” laughed Jeff.

“Oh, very good. I must purchase a beach hut if nothing else.”

“If I know you, you’ll get a beach hut which is out of the league of the working man’s six by eight shed full of fishing gear and waders,” said Jeff.

“More than likely,” said Alexander. “Some pretentious bungalow bigger than most houses in the most modern style, which means the roof will leak, and the winter’s blast will shatter all the outsize windows, and I will smile as if the cost of upkeep doesn’t break my heart and murmur about the need to be modern, and direct your attention to the sleek lines and modern materials.”

“Ass,” said Jeff, amicably. “Considering I’ve heard you animadverting on your brother-in-law to-be’s place and referring to it as ‘the sewerage station run mad,’ I can’t see that.”

“I like old houses,” said Alexander. “And here’s our lovely old house and it’s lovely comptroller,” he added, raising his hat to Mary, as she met them at the door.

“Oh, get on with you, Mr. Alexander,” said Mary.  “I’ve got some nice cutlets for dinner; do you mind if it’s served soon? Ruth doesn’t like Milliemolliemegsie to sit up too late, and you did say she might join you for dinner.”

“Oh, of course, delighted to fit in with you,” said Alexander. “We must change – well, I must, I’ve been throwing myself around as Koko, and I smell. No reason for Jeff to change so if I can have fifteen minutes to wash and scramble into clean duds….”

“No need to scramble, sir!  I can have it on the table in half an hour.”

“Splendid,” said Alexander. “Er, unusual name for your granddaughter, wot?”

“Her name is Millicent Mary Margaret, sir, and it sort of grew from  that,” said Mary, blushing.

“Milliemolliemegsie, I see. I’ll try and remember.”

“She answers to Millie,” said Mary.

 

 

Half an hour later, pink and scrubbed, Alexander came into the small dining room, where a pretty girl was adjusting a bib on a mutinous little girl. The young woman was dark, with a neat figure, and her child had red hair.

“Hello!” said Alexander. “Miss Fringford, and the younger Miss Fringford, I assume; now, I’m guessing you aren’t used to a bib with nursery tea, young lady, but Mama thinks it a good idea when dining in public, as it were.”

“It did seem like a good idea, sir,” said Ruth. “And I answer to ‘Ruth,’ sir, not being gentry. And Milliemolliemegsie is honoured to be addressed at all.”

“Well, if it doesn’t offend you,” said Alexander. “Miss Millie must make up her own mind.”

Milliemolliemegsie regarded him for a moment then giggled.

“You may call me ‘Miss Millie,’ she said, grandly.

“Miss Millie it is, then,” said Alexander. “You know, I shall tuck my napkin in my collar but napkins are a bit harder to control; so suppose you put up with a bib while you get used to us, and then Mama can teach you to use a napkin?”

The child regarded him solemnly.

“All right,” she said.

Ruth drew a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“She’s that Thripp fellow’s child, isn’t she?” said Alexander, regarding Millie. “At least she’s inherited most of your looks.”

Ruth blushed.

“I… he made me think he planned to marry me,” she said, defensively. “We were both very young.”

“You can’t, either of you have been older than about seventeen,” said Alexander. “I don’t judge; except that a true gentleman does not behave like that. I already dislike the fellow, so it’s another mark against him. I expect Miss Thripp would like to have time in her great niece’s life.”

“She has been all that is good,” said Ruth. “She thinks him a good man, though; I have not told her how he laughed at me and asked how I thought a gentleman would marry a serving wench.”

“What a tick he is!” said Alexander. “Well! Let us eat; Mary and Cambell come bearing viands.”

 

lies in Lashbrook 2

 

Chapter 2

 

Alexander rose early by habit, and Jeff opened his bedroom door, hearing him moving.

“You can’t sleep in either, eh?” said Alexander, jovially. “No, no, don’t blush for still being in pyjamas, I was going to have breakfast in my dressing gown and then take a leisurely bath when the boiler has had a chance to heat up properly.  I’ll be putting something more modern in so there’s enough hot water for everyone, but I told Mary not on any account to skimp for herself. I don’t see why I shouldn’t please myself in my own home, so please join me in PJs!”

“I don’t say I don’t get myself breakfast before dressing at times on the weekend,” admitted Jeff. “You can tell me about the village players.”

“Certainly! Though the one I know best is Fred Chaffinch, the stationmaster. A fine bass, and sings at work. His lady wife, Polly, is a soprano who can stretch to mezzo at need, she usually sings the lead, and has kept herself trim enough to pass for half her age on stage. Fred’s frankly portly, but some of that is down to the excellence of the pastry in the bakery. Polly firmly feeds him healthy food, but Fred’s a rebel.”

“I sympathise,” said Jeff.

“Me too; but I do exercise more than Fred,” said Alexander. “Polly is also a creature of habit, and feeds him according to what day it is. And sometimes a man gets bored. But he won’t take it up with her, as she’s a good wife to him, and he doesn’t like to criticise.”

“I should say if a woman has only one fault, it would be ungrateful,” agreed Jeff. “So, she’s playing Yum-Yum?  I picked up a libretto secondhand in Portobello Road. I’ve been studying them to keep up with you.”

“Bless you! That’s above and beyond,” said Alexander. “Ida’s singing Pitti Sing, and Gladys, who is more by way of being her companion than her maid, is singing t’other one. Peep-bo, that’s what she’s called. Apparently the three girls in the original 1885 production were all short and someone suggested to W.S. Gilbert that they should be schoolgirls, which led to probably the most well-known song from the show.”

“You live and learn!” said Jeff.

 

Breakfasted, dressed, and strolling out, Alexander continued his description of local notables.

“Dan Reckitt is our Nanki-Poo,” said Alexander. “He’s the postman; his father, Sam, is postmaster, which means he’s also newsagent, and owns the bakery and tea shop, so the role of Pooh-Bah is made for him, though with plenty of padding, as he’s as wiry as his son. Fred is the Mikado. Then there’s Tim Mapp, the local bobby, his best girl, Maggie Squires and her parents, Thomas and Marion, who run the bakery. Miss Thripp’s voice has been a problem, but she often fills in with secondary roles. And others who do the other roles. I don’t know everyone yet, but I will. Oh, Sid Smith, who is a mechanic and runs the garage; his father, Simon, is a blacksmith and farrier, and won’t have anything to do with ‘stage shenanigans.’ Cecily, Lady Baskerville, whom the locals call without regard to accuracy, ‘Lady Cecily’ doesn’t care to play on stage, but she’s an invaluable support in painting scenery; she’s a competent artist, if not in Ida’s league. And her little boy is happy to be dressed up and be a page or whatever, which keeps him occupied. Poor Cyril, lost his father before he was even born, and has a hollow title. Ida is a friend of Cecily’s and likes to keep an eye on Cyril.”

“It sounds like a community venture.”

“It really is. It’s mostly what you might call the skirters of the gentry, those with enough money and leisure to give time to it, land owners or shop holders. Cecily is, paradoxically, the poorest, but she’s popular, so she gets given offcuts of meat that ‘don’t look good enough to sell’ from Thruppence the butcher, or ends of fish ‘for a nice pie’ from Braithwaite, the fishmonger, who also runs the chippie, and sends her down leftovers. The Major was well-loved, apparently, Major Dennis Baskerville, that is.  His widow is seen as someone to look after.”

“Somewhat feudal,” said Jeff, not sounding approving.

“Yes, but poor Cecily was reared in such a way as to be unfit for any career,” said Alexander. “She does exquisite embroidery which Ida arranges to be sold, but it does not sell for its true value, of course. Ida got her involved in adding beadwork to fashion gowns, which does her better. She, Ida that is, has a schoolfriend who runs a boutique, on the strength of fashion drawings Ida did for her, being the forceful sort of young lady who took on board the reverses her family suffered and went out to do something about it, having a skill with dressmaking, and some skill with design. Ida helped make her fashionable, and Cecily now does delicate work for her. Velma, that’s the boutique owner, employs half a dozen girls, but that’s not really germane to the village here, as she’s based in London. You raided her when her brother, who’s a poisonous tick, ratted her up as running a bawdy house, as her employees live in, in the house her aunt left her.”

“That was damned embarrassing,” admitted Jeff. “She is a forceful lady, but she was very civil and forbearing.  It was quite plainly no such thing as a bawdy house, and I said so. Her brother, was it?  He’d bear watching.”

“Ida has her eyes on him,” said Alexander. “But I suspect he’s into drugs or something else illegal, I just haven’t got anything on him, yet.”

“Well, having met him, I, too, will keep an eye on Mr. Sidney Ambridge,” said Jeff. “I didn’t like him when he laid information.”

“Cheers,” said Alexander. “We might as well wander into the station, and I can introduce you to Fred.”

 

Fred Chaffinch pumped Jeff’s hand firmly.

“Mr. Armitage! You find me embarrassed,” he said to Alexander. “Would you mind switching roles in the play?”

“So long as I don’t have to sing Yum-Yum if your good lady has dropped out,” said Alexander. “The thought of what I’d have to do to reach those notes is excruciating.”

Fred boomed a laugh.

“Tears to the eyes, all right!” he agreed. “No, Oliver Oliver has dropped out of singing Koko.”

“No, really? Such a lugubrious fellow as our sexton was almost made for the part,” said Alexander.  “I can sing Koko, but what about Katisha?”

Fred looked uncomfortable.

“Miss Thripp wants to do it,” he said.

“I thought the laryngitis she had last year had caused her problems?” said Alexander.

Fred pulled a face.

“She has her nephew, Edgar, staying with her, who thinks she should fight for her rights to tread the boards with everyone else, and who thinks her failing voice could be made a comic feature for Katisha.”

Alexander frowned.

“That sounds cruel,” he said. “However, I’ll see if my mother will produce some of her famous honey, haw and blackcurrant wine to help her throat. I didn’t like to push in and suggest it before, but under the circumstances….”

Fred sniggered.

“She’s teetotal, is Miss Thripp, but if you tell her it’s medicine, she’ll take it religiously before bed, and if it gives her wilder dreams than she’s used to, I’m sure it won’t do her any harm. Thank you for understanding; normally she would sing something like Peep-bo, who has a tiny part, but she would take part.”

“If it gets too much for her, I’m sure Gladys would swap roles. Resourceful girl and quite capable of singing Katisha,” said Alexander.

Fred nodded.

“We can be flexible,” he said. “We’re used to things going wrong and carrying on like nothing has happened. We had some schoolmaster down one year, writing about the resourceful nature of the village schoolmistress for some academic magazine, and we got up a talent show, and he declaimed ‘Tubal Cain;’ and he did it with such an affected manner, and outrageous gestures, Simon Smith got it into his head that he was taking the mock, and advanced on him. Seemingly the schoolmaster had passed remarks on obsolete skills when Sid was doing up his car; and Sid hung one on him, being fond of his father. Pacifying Simon and getting them both offstage in opposite directions was a nightmare!”

“I can imagine,” said Alexander. “Simon Smith’s a force of nature when set off about something. And Sid’s a good son to him, as well as being my mechanic of choice even with all London to choose from.”

“I’ll drop him the word you said that,” said Fred. “He’ll be that chuffed!”

“It’s true,” said Alexander. “What of this Edgar… Thripp, I assume as you gave no other name?”

“Miss Thripp’s poor brother’s boy, though what was poor about him I don’t know,” said Fred.  “St. John Thripp was a wastrel and a scoundrel, married money and spent it, and fell drunk into the river and drowned leaving Edgar at university where Miss Thripp paid for him as his poor mother had died quietly of grief in fear of asking for enough money to replace the rags St. John Thripp’s shenanigans reduced her to. My missus is all for women exercising their rights to hang on to their own money, but that poor silly girl had no idea she was allowed to.”

“That’s a poor job on the part of her solicitor,” said Alexander.

“You never said a truer word! At least Miss T is shrewd enough to hang on to her little nest egg from her aunt; she paid for Edgar’s schooling from savings from her pay as schoolmistress.”

“She is no fool,” said Alexander. “I’ll wire for Mama to send her some throat juice, which is what we all called it growing up. And often extended our symptoms to be allowed it for a little longer.”

Fred laughed.

“You could probably make a fortune from it… if it weren’t against the law,” he said.

“Oh, Mama raises money for good causes at local fairs by selling a recipe for sixpence, and a free taste of the wine involved,” he said. “No alcohol is paid for; it’s complimentary alongside the typewritten recipe.”

“Now that’s casuistry!” said Jeff.

“Of course it is,” said Alexander. “But it raises money for the orphanage, or the church tower, and it’s not even harmful.  Well, not unless anyone drinks too many recipes.”

“Drunk and disorderly is at least something that can be regulated,” said Jeff.

“More likely passed out and vomiting on the vicar’s wife,” said Alexander. “Ghastly woman; all teeth and false eyelashes, and upset about the flower show’s main man referring to his secret being plenty of dung. Wanted it called ‘manure,’ but it’s taken Gaffer Cubitt’s wife any time the last forty years getting him to call it ‘dung.’”

“Oh, a good bit of shit does wonders for the roses,” said Fred. “And the nasturshalums. You oughta see my station nasturshalums in summer, Mr. Armitage, one part horse shit to seven parts compost. I got my compost bin out back of the station, and everything goes on it, left sandwiches, flowers bought and left to wilt in waiting rooms, newspapers, straw from the egg packing, stale beer, it all works down to make a nice drop o’ compost.”

“You’d get on just fine with my mother,” said Alexander.

He took Jeff Morrell to the post office, which was combined with the bakery-cum-teashop, and sent a telegram.

“I love the way you just send telegrams and expect your mother to send wine by return of post,” said Jeff. “I’m teetotal myself, but I have to say, my aunt makes medicinal wine, and it’s delicious.”

“I like country wines better than most table wines, myself,” admitted Alexander. “My mother’s mead is to die for. And probably an illegal strength to even exist outside of something called a spirit.”

“Didn’t the Vikings drink mead?” asked Jeff.

“Yes,” said Alexander.

“Maybe that explains a thing or two about them,” said Jeff.

Alexander laughed.

“I wouldn’t argue,” he said. “Oh, there’s Miss Thripp, and she is looking at me with timid terror in case I demand to hold onto my role. Miss Thripp! My friend, Mr. Jeff Morrell; he’s staying with me and volunteers to help with scenery. I hear you’re up for Katisha?”

The little lady of indeterminate age spoke in a whisper.

“Oh, Mr. Armitage! Do you mind? My nephew, my poor brother’s boy, you know, thinks that playing Katisha with a whisper might have comic effect. He tries so hard, though I am a bit nervous…”

“I’ve written to my mother for her patent cure for laryngitis,” said Alexander. “Keep it in your bedroom, and take a glass every night, and you can surprise your nephew and everyone else with how quickly your voice gets back to normal. You’ll be the terror of the classroom again in no time!”

“Oh, do you think so? Children nowadays do need the occasional raise in the voice, and it’s so hard….”

“I’m sure it will work,” said Alexander, who suspected that part of Miss Thripp’s problem was fear of overtaxing her voice, leading to her subconsciously suppressing it.

Sam Reckitt strolled over.

“Mr. Armitage! Can you really help Miss Thripp’s voice? I didn’t like the idea of making her a laughing stock.”

“My mother’s concoction of honey, haw, and blackcurrant will do it,” said Alexander, with confidence. “But let’s keep it quiet, eh, Sam? Not let anyone try to make Miss Thripp force it. And what a lovely surprise for her nephew if she can get better and play the role as it should be played.”

“Oh, yes! Edgar means well, but I was not happy about being laughed at,” said Miss Thripp. “I will take my medicine like a good girl.”

“It’ll come from Essex to me, you can unwrap it, Sam, and pass direct to Miss Thripp, I give you permission,” said Alexander.

“Well, permission from the police to interfere with the mails, that’s a different kettle of fish to just opening it,” laughed Reckitt.  

“My mother might just include another bottle for the good health of the players, so you can quietly squirrel that away,” said Alexander.

“Oh, ho! I see,” said Reckitt.

“So kind of your dear lady mother,” murmured Miss Thripp.

“She is,” said Alexander.

“Is it true that Mr. David Henderson is moving back to the village?” asked Reckitt. “I hear he remarried in haste.”

“Oh, Sam! Don’t you go fuelling the gossip. David adored Helen and was devastated when she was murdered, along with his brother, Basil, and all that dreadful business,” said Alexander[1]. “He remarried to Ida’s companion because he can’t cope with things like tradesmen and feeding himself, being all high-falutin’ architect and no common sense at all. I make an effort to be civil to him, but I find Elinor, his new wife, easier to deal with, and she handles him like a good nanny. It's a business arrangement, she gets security, and he gets to be looked after. Now, do be discreet about it, old man, but do scotch any rumours. Elinor is no young beauty sweeping him off his feet, and she knows it, but she’d still be hurt if anyone commented.”

“What, not Elinor Truckle?” asked Sam Reckit. “I thought she was Miss Ida’s governess.”

“Well, yes,” said Alexander. “But she has the knack of handling David. The builders should be starting today to clear and rebuild Foursquares.”

“Lord, not the same glass monstrosity as it was, I hope,” said Reckitt.

“No, Elinor and I put in our thoughts, and it shouldn’t be more than ordinarily ugly,” Said Alexander, with more honesty than tact.

Reckitt laughed heartily.

“Oh, well, it’s my boy who has to approach it with the mail.”

 

---

[1] See ‘Murder, in oils’

Lies in Lashbrook 1

 

Chapter 1

 

“Fancy coming back with me for the weekend to the paradigm of entitled aristocratic piles?” Alexander Armitage asked his new friend and old colleague, Jeff Morrell.

“So long as you’ll eat fish and chips out of the paper and come into the pub with me to celebrate Queen’s Park’s win over Swansea,” said Jeff. They had been to the game together.

“I don’t know why you think I don’t like fish and chips out of the paper,” said Alexander. “As it happens, I do. And a scoop of scraps and a pickled onion.”

Jeff laughed.

“Just like us plebs,” he said.

“I’m one of the world’s workers too; I just happen to have independent means as well,” said Alexander. “And I am well aware that the ‘scraps’ of broken off fried batter represent the ability for a family of six to dine on enough chips for a family of four by eking it out with what the chip shop would otherwise throw away. I never have scraps when they’re in short supply, I know what they mean to people living on the edge.”

“I grant you that, you aren’t ignorant of how the other half live, like some of the toffs I’ve known,” said Jeff.

“I’d do more, but most are too proud to accept,” said Alexander. “At the same time, I do enjoy my privileged lifestyle.  The house belonged to my brother-in-law-to-be’s family, but David is an avant-garde architect and preferred to build a home which looked like a sewerage-pumping station. He leased the house, and the current lessor has sold him back the lease; and I bought the last five years as David plans to give it to Ida and me as a wedding present. I haven’t had a chance to go over it yet, and I thought I’d enjoy your comments on inconvenient draughty barns which would harden my resolve to keep it, because you bring out the contrary in me.”

“Well! At least you are honest about it,” said Jeff. “No Ida this weekend?”

“She’s assisting Sir Brian Cleevey, the eminent archaeologist, who is disinterring some noble Saxon in the wilds of Essex, and it goes towards her degree,” said Alexander. “I wrote ahead to have food in; I am domesticated and I can cook, and if all else fails, the bakery in the village does beef patties and Cornish pasties as well as sausage rolls, and there’s a chippie.”

“Ah, in that case, I accept,” said Jeff. “When are you back on active duty?”

“Another month,” said Alexander. “I keep thinking I’m fit for work, but then, I do a bit too much, and I’m washed up.”

“A belly wound is a serious matter,” said Jeff. “What are you doing to occupy yourself?”

“I’ve joined the Lashbrook Players, an amateur dramatics group,” said Alexander. “I won’t be destroying the dignity of the Yard, because I’ll be in drag under about three tons of makeup as ‘Katisha;’ we’re doing ‘The Mikado.’  The title role is Fred Chaffinch, the station-master, and we know we can blend our voices well, he’s a pal of mine. I’m replacing someone I nicked last year, who used to do the dame roles.”

“Well, I suppose that seems fair. What had he done?”

“Dope smuggling. Actually it tied in with the business I fell into on the cruise, so that is very satisfying.”

“Indeed, filthy slow murderers. We don’t disagree on that.”

“I doubt we actually disagree on many fundamental things, Jeff; but I am glad you now know I’m not on the take.”

“I was a fool, jealous.”

“Maybe, but don’t stop questioning why any copper has more money than seems reasonable. Some of them are on the take.”

 

 

A few hours later, the Elizabethan mansion which was Lashbrook House loomed out of the gloaming.

“It is quite a pile,” said Jeff.

“Yes, by Jove; a medieval hall house with Elizabethan wings and later Jacobean twiddly bits, by the look of it,” agreed Alexander. “I’ve passed by outside once or twice but it will be my first time inside.”

He rang the bell, a handle like a stirrup on a massive cloth bell-pull. There was a jangle.

The door opened to a plump woman.

“We don’t want none,” she said, and started to shut the door.

“Mary Fringford! Didn’t you receive my letter?” asked Alexander.

The door-closure paused.

“What, are you the gentleman who bought out the lease?” Mrs. Fringford demanded.

“I am, indeed; and I’m going to be marrying Miss Ida,” said Alexander.

“Well, that’s a different matter!” said Mary Fringford throwing open the door. “I saw two of you, and thought you were from the council, or were salesmen, or some other kind of crook.”

“I apologise, I should have let you know,” said Alexander. “I asked my friend, Mr. Morrell to join me for the weekend to look the place over. It was a bit of an impulse, and if we will put you up we can retire to The Crown in the village….”

“You will do no such thing, Mr. Armitage!” scolded Mary Fringford.  “I’ll have a room put up for Mr. Morrell in a brace of shakes, and I laid on plenty of chops, knowing that a man likes his chops, and working on the principle that the meat of any not eaten will go nice in a stew.”

“Ida said you were one in a million, and I see she does not exaggerate,” said Alexander.

“Well, now!  I’m sorry there’s no man to bring up your luggage, unless your man will oblige?”

“Oh, Campbell will oblige. He’s batman, valet, chauffeur and general helpmate to me; where have you accommodated him?”

“Well, sir, I set up the dressing room, and I also sorted out the room over the garage which used to be the chief stablehand’s room in times past, the stables being empty now,” said Mary.

“I’ll give him the choice then; though I suspect he’ll take the dressing room as I’m still not fully recovered from a nasty wound I took earlier in the year,” said Alexander. “I see you have a full complement of strap-and-jewel work on the woodwork in the vestibule; any priest’s holes or similar?”

“Oh, a fair share of secret and hidden rooms and spaces,” said Mary. “I came across one unexpected-like only the other day, and it was full of apple cores, and Miss Ida’s drawings.”

“Delightful!” said Alexander. “Not the apple cores, but some of her early work.”

“Aye, she was always talented, not that Mr. David saw it,” said Mary. “Said she should learn to make her work tighter for proper architectural drawings, he did; and look what that got him. That nasty sewerage works of a house and burned down by leaving all the doors unlocked.”

“Poor David,” said Alexander. “I hope I will become ‘Mr. Alexander,’ and become part of the family; David said he’d give us the place for a wedding present.”

“There now! That’s a lovely idea, Mr. Alexander,” said Mary, leading them to the front of the house and down a long gallery. “The rooms open off into rooms with windows on the courtyard,” she said. “Nice and quiet. I’ve put you in the master suite here, and perhaps Mr. Morrell will take the suite next door?”

“Delighted,” murmered Jeff Morrell.

“There now, you look as if you need a bit of feeding up; just leave it to Mary,” said Mary. “My girl, Ruth, will be in tomorrow, to help out.  Don’t mind her manner, she’s that on edge after the divorce, but don’t you go thinking she’s a bad girl! Running around after other women he was, and then he murdered that poor old woman and went to jail, so she was able to get a divorce on grounds of his criminality. I warned her he was a bad apple, but no, she would have him; a scarcity of men after the war, o’ course, and him handsome enough, though handsome is as handsome does, I say! And her wanting a father for her little girl, having been deceived, and him willing enough to take on a little cuckoo. And these men who claim to do something in the city, well, unless they own to an honest trade, who knows what they get up to?  And what he got up to was defrauding folks, and the one that caught on, he hit her with the fire irons. Fortunate for my Ruth, once she found out he was keeping three other fancy women, and one o’ them he was already married to, so it wasn’t really a divorce, only we say so, on account of her little girl, who’d be illegitimate really if she had been his, not the child of a wicked deceiver. My poor Ruth hasn’t had much luck with men.”

 “There are some bad men about,” murmured Alexander, feeling he should say something.  “My friend and I are both police inspectors, nothing hidden about our careers.”

“Well, I did hear so, and that you were a gentleman as well, so I must say, I assumed Mr. Morrell would be a colleague of yours,” said Mary. “I’ll have the bed made up for you in no time, Mr. Morrell.” She whirled off.

Alexander looked at Jeff, ruefully.

“I wonder if she has an ‘off’ switch?” he said.

Jeff laughed.

“Well, at least she’s not questioning having police in the house,” he said. “I feel sorry for her daughter.”

“Me too,” said Alexander. “Well, at least we know there are secret rooms; I hope Mary will tell me where they are. I am sure it must be most unnerving to be minding your own business when the wall opens up to reveal the maid carrying a change of linen and catching one unclad.”

“Had it happen?”

“Once, when I was about fourteen and visiting my parents’ friends. I was never so embarrassed in my life!”

“I wager!” said Jeff. “Well, it makes you more human, I have to say.”

“I’m only too human,” said Alexander. “Let’s explore; exploring an old house with secrets makes me feel like a schoolboy.”

 

They could only explore superficially; there was a distinct lack of electrical wiring, and Alexander was unaccustomed to going around with a candlestick. But the dinner gong sounded, and they exchanged guilty looks, being somewhat dishevelled, and rushed to their rooms to repair appearances to go down to eat. Alexander had no intention of changing for dinner, as Jeff was not likely to be used to such niceties, and Alexander was happy to shed them.

“I hope you’ll not mind a rather bitty meal, rustled up,” said Mary.

“I see you’ve only set the table for two,” said Alexander. “I know it will make hassle for you to suggest that you eat with us tonight, but I wish you will consider yourself part of the family. This is the twentieth century, after all, and we fought the war for the freedoms of all.”

“Well, Mr. Alexander, if you feel that way, I’m happy to oblige, but I don’t like to leave my daughter in the servant’s hall with her little girl.”

“Why, they must join us too,” said Alexander. “I’ve no objection to children at the table. If we were working on a case, I might have to ask to eat privately to discuss it, but this weekend we are footloose and fancy free.”

“Was that to impress me?” asked Jeff, when Mary left.

“No; I think it’s genuinely time to start sweeping aside many of the gulfs of social division,” said Alexander. “If we had a large number of servants I’d not insist on it, because it would make most of them uncomfortable, and I would want someone like a housekeeper keeping a lid on behaviour, as young people tend to get rowdy. But where it’s an old family retainer, why, she’s family.”

“I might have some of you old gentry all wrong,” admitted Jeff. “But the way you say, ‘old man,’ or ‘old boy,’ to me, it’s friendly, not patronising. And some of them are really patronising.”

“Partly, it’s fear, so they use arrogant as armour,” said Alexander. “The war swept away much of the old order. Women over thirty have the vote, there are no more property qualifications for men to vote, and the servant market has declined significantly. Fear of losing privilege makes some people behave worse to try to assert what rights they think they still have. Those of us prepared to work and take our place in this supposed world made for heroes have a better idea of the realities of life. I’m not about to give up the money my ancestors worked hard for, but I can at least direct some of it to make a difference.  I’ve been chatting to Miss Betty Thripp, the schoolmistress, and finding out what the village school needs. I’m a great believer in education.”

“Now, that’s practical,” agreed Jeff. “I confess, it is nice to partake in a bit of how the other half live.”

“It’s a lifestyle I don’t want to give up,” said Alexander. “And whilst I don’t have to do so, I don’t see why I should. I enjoy my privilege, and I’m happy to share the good life with my friends.”

“And I like you the better for freely admitting to enjoying it. I hate the hypocrites who pretend to hate their money but still rely on it – the Oxford Socialist types.”

“Lord, yes, I want to strangle the little ticks,” said Alexander. “Ran into one in Tunisia, on the cruise, busy recruiting. Nasty piece of work, he strangled his spy, she was posing as a fortune-teller and extracting secrets from the diplomatic crowd’s silly young offspring.”

“Nasty,” said Jeff.

“I’ll say; Ida found the body, hidden on an archaeological site. Deuced unpleasant.”

“Well, it’s the policeman’s lot; if she can handle that, she’ll make you a good wife.”

“Yes, she’s a remarkable girl.  She’ll be joining me here, soon, and we shall warble together for the Lashbrook Players.  I’ll take you down the pub at lunch time tomorrow and introduce you around.”

“I don’t mind hefting a bit of scenery or even painting,” said Jeff.

“Oh, good man! I shall take you up on that,” said Alexander.