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.’
‘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.
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.’
