The Room on the Second Floor

As if reading her thoughts, Roger leant over, laid his hand on her arm and whispered, ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Linda.’

She beamed and waited for more. But that was it. This rare moment of natural human affection would, she knew full well, probably have to do her for the next six months. Tomorrow or the next day, he would once more plunge into his labyrinthine world of medieval politics and power struggles. She gave a mental shrug and returned to the task in hand, oblivious to the face of Rosie Barnes in the crowd to their left. The girl was staring bleakly at Roger as he clasped Linda’s arm. The expression of adoration on Roger’s face said it all. Her hopes dashed, Rosie turned back into the crowd, tears in her eyes. She was so upset, she didn’t even register the effect her audacious décolleté was having on every other man in the room.

‘I haven’t seen any of your family, Roger. Have you? Did any of your relations come?’

Linda had been responsible for sending out the invitations, so she knew that the few relatives who had been invited were of the very distant variety.

‘I haven’t seen any.’ Roger took another good look round, just in case. ‘Mind you, I’m not sure I would recognise any of them, even if they did decide to come.’

Duggie appeared with glasses of champagne. He knew Roger and his family better than most. As boys, the two of them had been inseparable. ‘They’re probably miffed that old Uncle Eustace left it all to you. You did have some pretty weird relatives though, didn’t you? What was your cousin’s name? William, wasn’t it? The one who looked like Dracula. He must be hopping mad. Mind you, thinking about it, he’d be like a hundred years old by now. I imagine he’s no longer with us.’

Linda looked across at Roger’s face. He still hadn’t fully come to terms with his great good fortune. Being left a thirty-six room mansion, along with the rental income from a street of Georgian houses in Hampstead, had turned him into a very wealthy man. But he wasn’t making plans to buy a Caribbean island, or a villa in St Tropez. Professor Roger Dalby had other things on his mind. Predictably, his intention was to concentrate entirely on his research into the life of Saint Bernard. Linda was not in the least surprised to hear the B-word on her boss’s lips at that very moment.

‘Champagne was the cradle of civilisation in Bernard’s day, you know. And yet, they never got round to making the sparkling wine itself till the later Middle Ages.’ He was staring down into his full glass of champagne, musing out loud to nobody in particular.

Determined not to let him retreat into the past, Duggie was quick to snap him out of it. ‘Bloody hell, Rog, can’t you think about anything else? So tell me something. Why did they call those big hairy dogs after the old boy then? Surely he didn’t have a tail and a barrel round his neck?’

‘No, of course not. It was the abbey…’ He stopped. Even Professor Roger Dalby knew when he was being made fun of.

‘You could do with a dog in the new house, you know.’ Duggie drained his champagne glass just in time to slip it onto a passing tray and replace it with another. Chivalrously he offered it to Linda, but she waved it away with a light shake of the head. He remembered that she rarely drank. This was something else she had in common with her boss. She turned back to Roger, catching his arm in her eagerness.

‘Oh yes, Roger, get a dog please. It would be such great company.’ Her eyes sparkled and her hand on his arm felt good. Eager to please her, he immediately agreed. In fact, if she had suggested getting a giraffe, his reaction would probably have been the same.

‘Of course. We must have a dog. There is so much land at the new place, we could have a whole pack of them.’

She thrilled at the use of the pronoun we, but made no comment.

‘Will you help me select one, please?’ Delighted to see her nod, he carried on. ‘I suppose we could even consider a Saint Bernard…’ This time both of them groaned as one, so he hastily qualified it with a vague ‘or whatever…’.

Then, to the surprise of both of them, he did not dive back into the Middle Ages.

‘I hardly knew Uncle Eustace at all, you know.’ His voice was low.

‘Did you ever meet him?’ Linda prompted him gently, conscious that personal revelations did not come easy to him. She was rewarded by an unambiguous answer.

‘Only at the funeral.’ He paused to clear his throat. ‘My parents were both killed in a car crash. I was only nineteen. I was halfway through my first year at Cambridge when they had the accident. It all seemed so surreal somehow. One moment I was a normal student in the process of breaking away from my parents and then, overnight, they were dead.’

He swallowed the glass of champagne in one gulp before carrying on. The expression on his face was bleak. It took the thirty-five years of rigorous training in the suppression of her emotions by her Methodist parents to stop Linda from sweeping him into her arms and clutching him to her breast. She did at least grip his arm tightly. Duggie reached out to a passing waitress and replaced the empty glass with another full one. Roger didn’t even notice. He carried on.

‘I didn’t see him in the church. It was outside in the churchyard in the pouring rain. After that awful bit, where you pick up a handful of earth and drop it into the grave, I suddenly felt an arm around my shoulders. A flask of brandy was pushed into my hand. I took a mouthful and turned to see him; a mane of black hair and a beard and moustache like one of the Merovingian kings.’

There was a pause, during which both Linda and Duggie waited for him to veer off, and take refuge in his own private medieval world. But, to their surprise and gratification, he persevered in the modern era.

‘He gave me a hug and told me he was the black sheep of the family. That’s what he said, “the black sheep”. He said he had loved his sister very dearly and regretted the fact he had seen so little of her. Then he kissed me on both cheeks and left without another word. Can’t have been with me for more than thirty seconds. It was only that night I found the hipflask in my pocket. It had McKinnon Marine etched in the side. That was my mother’s maiden name: McKinnon.’ He paused awkwardly, as if regretting this rare glimpse into his personal life.

Both Linda and Duggie, who knew him so well, were struck by this rare insight. This was, however, the end of the revelations. He fell silent. His mind was clearly already heading back to the Middle Ages when Duggie stepped in.

‘A toast.’

He held up his glass in their direction. The erstwhile university professor raised his glass absently. Linda snatched a mineral water from a passing waitress and joined in, unaware of the regret in Roger’s eyes as her hand was removed from his arm. Duggie waxed lyrical.

‘Here’s to your life at Toplingham Manor. May you find happiness and success. No, hang on a minute. You already have. How stupid of me to forget. So, here’s to your life at the manor and happiness and success to the rest of us. All right?’

Their glasses touched, and they drank the health of the lucky man. Then, remarkably, Roger Dalby stayed in the present day. Looking up, he asked the question that had been on his mind since seeing the manor for the first time, a few weeks before.

‘Now what do I do with a damn great house like the manor? Linda and I only need a couple of rooms at most.’ Oblivious to her surge of hope, he continued. ‘And another couple for me to sleep and eat in. I’m still left with over thirty spare rooms, and some of them are huge, as big as this ballroom.’

The crest of the wave of Linda’s emotions crashed back into its trough again. ‘Why don’t you start some kind of business?’ Her voice gave nothing away. ‘Maybe a hotel?’

But she tailed off, realising that even Basil Fawlty would make a better hotelier than Roger. He would no doubt be able to take an order for dinner, but would then most probably disappear into his study for the rest of the day. The customers would be left to starve. Hours later he would be found, looking up some arcane fact to do with his beloved saint. Duggie, however, had a practical solution.

‘A club. That’s what the old place would lend itself to. A private club with leisure facilities and entertainment. After all, there is a decent golf course hidden away in the grounds. All right, it’s a bit overgrown and only nine holes, but even so… And the old squash courts won’t need too much to get them back in operation. Toplingham Country Club. I can see it now.’

His arms were spread out wide, his eyes screwed shut, as he visualised the scene. A tasteful gold-lettered sign, pinned to the stone pillars outside the manor, floodlit at night, naturally. As he did so, his outstretched right hand brushed against something reassuringly warm and soft. He was delighted when he opened his eyes to see Tina Pound, coming over to offer her congratulations to Roger. He treated her to his most engaging smile.

‘Hello again. You’ve come back to me. I assume you know our illustrious host and hostess?’

Linda reddened, but managed a smile at Tina. They knew each other well from the university. ‘Hi, Tina. I didn’t know you and Douglas were friends.’

Duggie was quick to reply on her behalf, his hand catching hers and drawing her closer. ‘We may only have met a few minutes ago, but I feel we know each other so very well already.’ He kissed her bare shoulder affectionately.

Tina gave Linda a smile in return, while gently fending him off. ‘Half man, half octopus. Just my type.’

Linda watched their easy exchange enviously. Somehow they made this relationship thing look so very easy. She glanced across at Roger. As far as establishing a relationship with him was concerned, easy it most certainly wasn’t.

Roger nodded absently towards Tina. His mind was still on the manor, and Duggie’s suggested change of use.

‘All very well, Duggie. The club’s a great idea, but who could run it for me?’ He seemed unexpectedly taken with the idea. ‘Now that I am finally able to concentrate on the definitive history of St Bernard, I can hardly find the time to run a club. I might as well have stayed on in the department. Unless…’ His eyes met Duggie’s and, with an unusual degree of perspicacity, he immediately saw the answer to his question. ‘Unless you would feel like doing it – as a favour to me, Duggie? After all, your background in estate agency is sort of the same field, isn’t it?’

Duggie felt there was little to be gained from pointing out the many differences between selling houses and hospitality management. He settled for a broad smile of acquiescence, and the chance to run his right hand lightly down across the taut buttocks of Tina Pound. She didn’t slap him and he took that as a good sign.

‘Do you know? I think I might well be up for it.’ He sounded very keen.

Tina glanced across at him, a delicious feeling of anticipation warming her. He certainly wasn’t backwards at coming forwards.

‘Does that mean you’d consider giving it a try?’ Roger Dalby was genuinely pleased that his oldest friend might be prepared to help him out. For her part, Linda, despite her reservations about Duggie as a bad influence, could see that he would be a natural for the position.

‘The more I think about it, the better it sounds.’ Duggie was definitely warming to the idea. ‘I’ll give it some thought and get back to you.’

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted. Linda’s smile faded as she saw the scruffy figure of Edgar Lean stagger into view. The grubby lapels of his suit had clearly absorbed almost as much wine as he had. Any inhibitions he might have had, had been drowned by the alcohol.

‘Linda. You’re lovely. Give us a kiss.’ He lurched towards her.

‘Mr Lean, really!’ She affected her sternest voice as she addressed him. He chose to ignore her, raising his hand unsuccessfully to his mouth to stifle a burp.

‘Go on, darling. You know you want to.’

‘Bloody hell, Edgar. What do you think you are doing?’

Linda was impressed by the way Roger sprang to her defence. He gave Edgar Lean an icy glare.

‘Behave yourself, please.’

‘Keep your shirt on, Prof.’ He leered malevolently at him. ‘Only you get to touch the lovely Linda, is that it?’

Roger took a step forward, his temper rising.

Duggie felt it incumbent upon himself to intervene, before the host got embroiled in the fracas that the other man was clearly trying to provoke. Regretfully relinquishing the warmth of Tina Pound, he slipped swiftly across to position himself between the two men. With his broad shoulders turned towards Roger, he spoke to Lean in a friendly voice.

‘I think it might be best if you were to leave now, don’t you? I think you have maybe taken advantage of the hospitality a little too much.’

In return, Lean re-directed his hatred towards him. He hissed. ‘I’m not drunk, you twat. This is between me and?’ Duggie did not let him finish.

‘I’m a peace-loving person. But it’s only fair to warn you that the last person to talk to me like that ended up with a broken jaw.’ He moved a few inches closer and lowered his voice into a confidential whisper. ‘So why don’t you be a good boy and get the fuck out of here now. I really think you have outstayed your welcome.’

There was a brief, stunned, silence before Edgar Lean demonstrated that he was maybe not quite as stupid, or as drunk, as he looked. He turned on his heel and lurched out of the room. Duggie cleared his throat, rearranged his lapels and returned to the waiting presence of Tina. He was gratified to feel her hand grip his bicep. She squeezed it appreciatively.

‘Sure you aren’t a nightclub bouncer? It looked as if you’ve done that before a few times.’

‘Did you really break somebody’s jaw?’ Linda, to her amazement, found herself quite relishing this outpouring of testosterone from the men around her.

‘My God, no.’ Duggie had reverted to type. ‘Not my kind of thing at all. I was just counting on it not being his either.’

Roger, who had driven him to A&E to have his dislocated finger relocated the day after the incident in question, did not disabuse them. Indeed, Roger, over the years, had been with him in several other similar circumstances. If Duggie preferred to be thought of as mild-mannered and peaceable, that was his affair.

‘Nasty little wretch.’ Roger watched the door close behind Lean. ‘And trying to insinuate that I would lay a finger on you, Linda.’

Chance would be a fine thing, she thought wistfully.

Tina from Geography asked the question on all their lips.

‘Who the hell was he, and what on earth was that all about?’ She looked around the others. ‘Just too much to drink, or was there more to it than that?’

‘He’s one of my postgrads.’ Roger was recovering his aplomb. ‘He’s not very happy about my passing him over to another supervisor for his doctorate. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he had an unhealthy interest in Linda.’

‘I thought I could hear the old green-eyed devil. Have you been aware that you have another suitor, Linda?’ Tina smiled at Linda’s discomfiture. Her relationship, or the lack of it, with Roger had been a standing joke across the campus for years. To her delight, Roger jumped in, right on cue, to further demonstrate his lack of awareness.

‘What do you mean, another suitor?’ Turning to Linda he asked, ‘Have you got a suitor?’

Once again Duggie confirmed his credentials as a diplomat, and earned a glance full of gratitude from Linda. He stepped in and steered the conversation into safer territory.

‘Now, Roger, you really should go and devote some time to your guests.’ He glanced around the crowded room. ‘Maybe you could see if you can find second cousin Mabel. As for me, I have to leave now.’ He glanced across at Tina. ‘Something’s just come up.’

As Linda lead Roger back into the throng, Duggie heard her reassuring him. ‘Of course I haven’t got a suitor. Why ever would you think that?’

Duggie turned to Tina and tightened his grip on her.

‘Now, where were we?’

Tina had by now got the measure of him.

‘I seem to remember you had just confessed that you were a social pariah. And yet I’m still here.’ She felt the warmth of his body against hers, and smiled. ‘I’ve always thought the direct approach was best. Why don’t you stop beating about the bush. Drop the corny lines and say what’s on your mind.’ She saw his eyes flick down to her bosom. ‘So, is there something you’d like to get off your chest, Mr Scott?’ She smiled sweetly.

‘And where might I find this bush you would like me to beat about in?’

‘Use your initiative, Duggie.’

She felt herself drawn towards him, until his lips were at her ear.

‘Would you like a shag then, Tina?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

Chapter 3

‘That was your friend Duggie there. Did you see him?’

Linda rarely missed anything, while Roger rarely noticed anything. Unless it was a spelling mistake in a thousand-year-old manuscript.

Roger swung his head to the right. He just spotted Duggie sitting in his old Porsche, waiting for the red light to change. There was no sign of recognition on his face, but maybe the brand-new car Roger was driving was not yet familiar to his friend.

‘He probably doesn’t recognise the car yet.’ Linda, as usual, was on the same wavelength. ‘After all, you’ve only had it a week.’

The new car had been her suggestion. His previous one had been an accident waiting to happen; assuming, of course, that it could be persuaded to start in the first place. They had gone for a sober dark-blue model, comfortable on the inside, but not flashy externally. ‘Not like that red sports car of his!’ She settled back in her seat again. She let her eyes run over the pristine leather and walnut around her. Being with a multi-millionaire definitely had its advantages.

Duggie did not notice them pass. The early morning sun was shining diagonally across his windscreen. He was fascinated as it picked out the clear image left by a pair of bare feet, just above dashboard level. Neat, small, feminine feet, highlighted in a spectrum of colour. He smiled to himself as the lights changed to amber. Roger’s farewell bash had been a very good do, but not a patch on the energetic romp with Tina Pound that had only finished a few hours ago. He stretched and yawned. The lights changed to green, and he accelerated off in the direction of Toplingham Manor, unaware that his future employer had just passed him on his way to the RSPCA.

‘Roger, you do realise that they don’t normally have St Bernard dogs at the RSPCA, don’t you?’ Linda was not quite sure whether his suggestion the previous evening had been in fun or not. He set her mind to rest.

‘Of course. Anyway, I would never want a big dog like that. No, let’s go for a little mutt. But you can choose.’

He cast her a quick glance. She looked as lovely as ever. He actually allowed a sigh to escape his lips.

‘That was a big sigh? Are you tired after the party last night?’ There was a note of concern in her voice. ‘I thought you handled it remarkably well. Did you know? The caterers said there were almost two hundred guests.’

He did not know that. As far as he was concerned, it had been an unavoidable evil that he had survived rather than enjoyed. St Bernard had been reclusive as well. Bernard had no time for social graces. Not for the first time, Roger found himself wondering whether he, too, should have chosen the monastic life, maybe even joining the Cistercians like St Bernard himself.

The notion died stillborn. There were, after all, two major obstacles to his becoming a monk. Firstly, and this was a serious stumbling block, he did not believe in God. Another surreptitious glance across to his left reminded him of the second. Celibacy was a prerequisite for any monk. He knew all too well he would find this impossible. All the same, he reflected grimly, he had been effectively celibate for so long now, he really needed to find the courage to do something about it.

‘I must say, Linda, that the success of the evening was due to you. I would have made a complete hash of organising a do for two hundred people. You are amazing. I really don’t know what I would do without you.’

She sighed.

Their arrival at the Sunny Combe Animal Shelter prevented him from heaping any further praise upon her.

‘Here we are.’

Roger pulled into a tight parking space. They both climbed out of the car, to be assailed by an impenetrable wall of sound; barking, howling and growling. Linda gave him a reassuring smile. She would have taken his hand, except that she felt it would not have been seemly.

Chapter 4

Over on the other side of town, Duggie was making his first serious tour of inspection of Toplingham Manor. The initial impression was very imposing. Granite gate posts, with gryphons on the tops, gave way to a wide gravelled drive. This led up the slope from the main road, several hundred yards long, to the house. It snaked through the overgrown deer park, dotted with specimen trees ranging from massive oaks to giant cedars. To his estate agent’s eye, it was pretty clear that the house itself was Georgian and equally clear that it could do with a lot of TLC. The slate roof looked solid, but tired. A few patches of plaster on the walls had blown and peeled. Nothing too serious, he thought to himself as he pulled up in the car park opposite the front door.

A porch, comfortably wide enough to keep the rain off the heads of any visiting nobility alighting from their carriages, was supported by four imposing columns. A white marble stairway led up to the doors. As instructed by Roger, he ignored them and made his way round to the back of the house.

Without too much difficulty, he located the key. It was knotted onto a length of string, dangling inside the letterbox of the door to the servants’ quarters. So it was that he came into the building through the kitchens. A few empty cardboard boxes and a row of black rubbish sacks were lined up, ready to be thrown out. Alongside them were half a dozen empty champagne bottles, presumably the remnants of Uncle Eustace’s cellar.

Now that’s not a bad idea, he thought to himself. He tugged open one of the fridges. He was rewarded by the sight of a number of full bottles, and one half-empty. As he pulled it out, he was unsurprised to see the label bearing the crest of McKinnon Marine. The cork came out with a reassuring pop. Unable to see a glass, he picked up a mug sporting the same crest, and filled it to the top.

‘This is the life,’ he murmured to himself as he raised it to his lips. A split second later, he felt a stab in the back from a blunt, but nonetheless painful, implement. He spilt half his champagne onto his shoe. He was on the point of spinning round, when a menacing voice rooted him to the spot.

‘Now where the bejesus would you be thinking of going, you thieving scoundrel? I’ve got a good mind to blow your kidneys straight into your pancreas and out through your duodenum. I’ll take my chances with the police, by the holy virgin of Lourdes if I won’t.’

Duggie knew a thing or two about firearms, so he stayed dead still. The barrel of the gun pushed ever more insistently into him. Single barrel, wide enough to be a shotgun, twelve-bore, maybe bigger. He found himself analysing the sensation quite dispassionately. Old habits die hard. Hopefully he was dealing with one of the staff his friend had inherited. He cleared his throat and spoke in mild tones.

‘No need for the threats. I am on your side, honest.’ He sensed a slight faltering in the resolve of his assailant. ‘My name is Douglas Scott, a good friend of Professor Dalby and, so long as you don’t carry out your threat, the future manager of this place.’ This time the pressure in the small of his back reduced to just the slightest hint, so he decided to risk turning round. ‘Professor Dalby told me he had called, to let you know I was coming.’