I followed Sid’s squelching feet with pumping heart. The floorboards creaked beneath our feet and the candle in Sid’s hand flickered ghoulishly. The door loomed up like a wall in a slow motion accident. I did not move. Nothing could force me to lay hand on that smooth brass knob. Sid made a face at me and stepped forward. I took a step back. Sid turned the knob and I watched his face as he threw the door open. It was engulfed in horror. He let out a choking cry and his hand sprang to his mouth as he staggered backwards. Unable to resist seeing what lay beyond that terrible door, I darted a glance over his shoulder. Immediately, my own hand sprang to cover my nose and mouth. It was horrible. The cistern still gurgled and the chain swung gently. Why had Quint not opened a window …?

CONFESSIONS FROM A HAUNTED HOUSE
Timothy Lea

CONTENTS

Epigraph

Title Page

Introduction

Chapter 1

In which Timmy and his brother-in-law, Sid, set off on the trail to terror via a beautiful naked girl with a hairbrush, and in which faint-hearted readers pack it in before the start of Chapter 2.

Chapter 2

In which we meet lovely Harper Deneuve, a distant relation from the USA, and an eventful trip from London Airport culminates in a loud bang.

Chapter 3

In which the fearless threesome visit a solicitor and Harper hears something very much to her advantage. Death is in the air.

Chapter 4

In which Timmy, Sid and Harper arrive on bleak Dartmoor and spend a night or terror – and other things – at the lonely Cock Inn.

Chapter 5

In which the intrepid trio set off on the last stage of their hazardous journey to Grimstark Manor, ancestral seat of the Deneuves, and undergo a horrifying experience.

Chapter 6

In which we enter the walls of the family seat and meet Festering, the sinister butler, and his staff: Quint, Grip and Blight. Also, excitable Lady Antionia and the aptly-named undermaid, Fanny.

Chapter 7

In which night falls, secret panels slide and three lives dangle in the balance.

Chapter 8

In which Timmy escapes from the claustrophobic terror of Grimstark Manor and shares a few idyllic moments with upper-crust Fiona Frenzy in a nearby stable, as well as learning something that advances the plot.

Chapter 9

In which skilful deduction and investigation culminate in the horrible ordeal of Blackmoor Bog.

Chapter 10

In which Sid leads an assault on the forces of evil and death strikes again in macabre circumstances.

Chapter 11

In which the flower of the county assembles at Grimstark Manor for the Hunt Ball and the curtain rises on the final act.

Chapter 12

In which there is excitement, suspense and death and your goolies drop off if you skipped the rest of the book to get to the denouement. If you don’t know what a ‘denouement’ is, your goolies drop off anyway.

Chapter 13

Which is unlucky for some.

Also available in the confessions Ebook series

Copyright

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION

How did it all start?

When I was young and in want of cash (which was all the time) I used to trudge round to the local labour exchange during holidays from school and university to sign on for any job that was going – mason’s mate, loader for Speedy Prompt Delivery, part-time postman, etc.

During our tea and fag breaks (‘Have a go and have a blow’ was the motto) my fellow workers would regale me with stories of the Second World War: ‘Very clean people, the Germans’, or of throwing Irishmen through pub windows (men who had apparently crossed the Irish sea in hard times and were prepared to work for less than the locals). This was interesting, but what really stuck in my mind were the recurring stories of the ‘mate’ or the ‘brother-in-law’. The stories about these men (rarely about the speaker himself) were about being seduced, to put it genteelly, whilst on the job by (it always seemed to be) ‘a posh bird’:

‘Oeu-euh. Would you care for a cup of tea?’

‘And he was up her like a rat up a drainpipe’

These stories were prolific. Even one of the – to my eyes – singularly uncharismatic workers had apparently been invited to indulge in carnal capers after a glass of lemonade one hot summer afternoon near Guildford.

Of course, these stories could all have been make-believe or urban myth, but I couldn’t help thinking, with all this repetition, surely there must be something in them?

When writing the series, it seemed unrealistic and undemocratic that Timmy’s naive charms should only appeal to upper class women, so I quickly widened his demographic and put him in situations where any attractive member of the fairer sex might cross his path.

The books were always fun to write and never more so than when they involved Timmy’s family: his Mum, his Dad (prone to nicking weird objects from the lost property office where he worked), his sister Rosie and, perhaps most importantly, his conniving, would be entrepreneur, brother-in-law Sidney Noggett. Sidney was Timmy’s eminence greasy, a disciple of Thatcherism before it had been invented.

Whatever the truth concerning Timothy Lea’s origins, twenty-seven ‘Confessions’ books and four movies suggest that an awful lot of people share my fascination with the character and his adventures. I am grateful to each and every one of them.

Christopher Wood aka Timothy Lea

CHAPTER ONE

Yes! I’m back. And before I go any further I would like to say a word to all those people who sat down to write a letter begging me to produce another book: why did I never hear from you? I suppose something came up on the telly or your pencil broke? You did not know the address? Excuses, excuses. If you really cared you’d have done something about it instead of leaving everything to mum and her sandwich board. Up and down, up and down, outside the publishers. Her poor old feet wore a groove in the pavement. ‘Bring back Timothy Lea’ it said on one side of the board, ‘Millions morn’ on the other. She meant to say ‘Mourn’ but spelling was never her strong point. Seeing a chance to cash in on some free advertising, the publishers rushed out a book called Million’s Morn and made a small fortune. They are very sharp, publishers. Anyway, in the end they reckoned that she was letting the tone of the place down and gave in, so here I am. Thank you, mum.

Actually, what brought me back was not the chance of making a few bob [Pull the other one! Editor] but my desire to tell the world about a really astonishing series of events that completely reshaped my belief in the supernatural – or rather, my disbelief in the supernatural. Incidentaly, if you think that Supernatural is a brand of petrol, this is not the book for you. I must warn anyone who is squeamish or scares easily that they’d better not read this book. Some of the things that I am going to describe would make hair stand up on Yul Brynner’s nut. I can hardly believe them myself and yet I was there. Yes! Actually there. Hold on a minute, once more my hands are beginning to shake uncontrollably. Don’t worry, the spasm will soon pass. It is just that the memory of these terrifying events is still too close for comfort. There, that’s better. Now I can start tapping the typewriter without getting my digits wedged between the keys. The question is: Where do I start? [How about at the beginning? Editor]. I am sorry about these interruptions but I have a new, young editor and he does like to get ‘involved’.

Anyway, I think the best point of departure is about the time that the Noglea Emergency Service folded. ‘Folded’ is perhaps the wrong word as I will explain later. Mention of the word Noglea may remind old readers of the existence of my brother-in-law and partner, one Sidney Noggett, Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman and husband to my sister Rosie. This was about the time, too, that Sid tried to sell the ancestral home of the Leas, 17 Scraggs Lane, to a rich Arab sheik as a hunting lodge. However, the deal fell through – at about the same time as the attic floor. It was the weight of all the wives trooping in to look into the water tank. Sid had described it as a general purpose washing machine and camel trough and was flogging it as an extra. Anyway, it ended up in Mum and Dad’s bedroom along with everybody else and that was that little deal kiboshed. It nearly cost Britain her oil supplies for a couple of months but there was nothing that a few dozen diplomatic notes and a barrel of sheeps’ eyes could not smooth over. After that incident, Sid was not a welcome visitor at Scraggs Lane despite his assurances that he’d been going to set Dad up with his own date farm on the proceeds from the sale. In fact, any mention of Sid’s name and Dad showed all his teeth and made a noise like a whistling kettle boiling over. The failure of this deal and other schemes to separate our Arab brothers from their petro-dollars – the Twelve Hour Yashmak Dry Cleaning Service is a disaster that springs readily to mind (one batch got mixed up with a twelve-hour nappy service with results too horrible to describe) – saw to it that Sid was thrown back on more conventional ways of trying to do very little with even less to make a lot. It was thus that the Noglea Emergency Service was born and I had to repaint the side of the mini-van once again: ‘Disasters are our Business’. Yes, I was a bit sceptical about it myself but whatever else Sid isn’t – and he isn’t lots of things – he is stubborn. An advert in the Yellow Pages – Sid used to think these were for Chinese restaurants and laundries – and we were in business. Quite what business I was never sure. Sid purposely wanted to keep it vague. He said that we would take on some enormous project and then ‘lay it off’, as he described it. This meant getting somebody else to do it and keeping most of the money. He said people were doing it all the time – that we would be performing an ‘entrepreneurial function’. Well, people may have been doing it all the time but we certainly weren’t. The telephone never started ringing. Sid said that it was all due to graft: the gaffers down the town hall were giving jobs to their mates and accepting kick-backs. He said he would never descend to bribery, but next week he took the town hall carpark attendant out for a sandwich and a few beers. It did not do any good though: next time we parked the van in the town hall carpark it was towed away. Sid was choked. He said that the whole edifice of British justice was crumbling and backed the van over the carpark attendant’s moped.

That was where matters stood – or rather, crouched – one evening when the telephone rang and I heard Sid’s agitated voice. ‘Timmy? Something’s come up. It could be very big. Get your mac on and I’ll pick you up in five minutes.’

He put the phone down before I had time to ask him what it was all about and think of a reason why I could not come. I crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain. Sid was not kidding about the mac. It was pouring down. Not only that but chucking great bolts of lightning about. A clap of thunder exploded overhead and I thought that it must be something promising to get Sid out on a night like this. As it so happened, I was wrong.

‘A gas leak?’ I said: ‘You must be kidding!’

Sid squinted through the wipers. ‘We’ve got to put some new rubbers in these things.’

‘Some old rubbers would do,’ I said. ‘Why do you think they make that noise? Two semi-circular pieces of glass are going to drop in our laps at any moment.’

‘Gordon Bennet,’ shouted Sid. ‘I have to do everything, don’t I? Think of the capers, find the jobs, maintain the vehicle—’

‘Tell me more about this job,’ I said, soothingly. ‘We don’t know anything about gas. How’d they get onto us?’

‘They got onto us because they saw our name in the telephone book,’ said Sid. ‘“Emergency Service”, remember? After that I boxed clever. I didn’t let on we had no practical experience of gas leaks.’

‘That was clever? Give me an example of when you’re boxing really badly.’

‘Don’t be so blooming feeble,’ said Sid. ‘All we’ve got to do is find the leak. Then one of us nips out and grabs hold of somebody to fix it. They do the work, we cop most of the mula.’

‘Enough to pay for a nice funeral, I hope,’ I said. ‘I must put my foot down at this point.’

‘Put your foot down on that fag end,’ retorted Sid, indicating a quarter inch of hand-rolled that was smouldering on the floor. ‘And not too hard. There’s only road beneath those rubber mats.’ He was not kidding. Such was the parlous state of Noglea finances that the van – our only asset – was rusting away around us. Much as I disliked the idea of searching for a gas leak I could see that even a job sexing alligators would have to be given serious consideration. The rain was still bucketing down when we found ourselves being waved to a halt by a copper with a flashlight. ‘If he asks for the MOT test we’re up the spout,’ I said.

‘Don’t be a berk,’ said Sid. ‘This is it.’

I looked through the misted-up windscreen and saw that the cops were manning a barrier that shut off one of the approach roads to an enormous block of flats. Lightning flashed and I glimpsed a crowd of people held back by a rope. Some of them were in dressing gowns and slippers, poor sods. They were shivering under umbrellas and had obviously been recently evacuated from their flats. The building itself was hardly smaller than a skyscraper and there was no sign of a light in any of the windows. Another flash and there it was, rising stark and gaunt like Cleopatra’s needle. I had the nasty feeling that we had bitten off more than we could chew.

‘Emergency Service,’ said Sid, crisply.

‘Oh yes.’ The copper’s voice sounded almost apologetic. ‘Anywhere you like, gentlemen. Do you want the crowd moved back?’

‘They’ll be all right like that, officer,’ said Sid, grandly. He wound up the window and ground the gears impressively before pulling up before the main entrance.

‘Sid,’ I said, ‘This is ridiculous.’

Sid did not have time to answer because another copper opened the door. ‘Eighteenth floor,’ he said. ‘Good luck. You’re brave men.’ I would like to have disagreed with him but he was already running towards the crowd.

‘At least we’ll be out of the wet,’ said Sid.

I felt no desire to answer that statement and accompanied Sid to the lift. We had been standing in it for a few minutes, reading the graffiti on the walls and trying not to think about the nasty smell in the corner that was definitely not gas, when we realized that the lift was of the non-mobile variety frequently found in council flats. Seventeen storeys later – or it might have been sixteen, by then my knees were beginning to lose count – we staggered into a darkened corridor and I could definitely smell gas. ‘Blimey,’ I said. ‘What a horrible pong!’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Sid. ‘I should never have had those pilchards after the baked beans.’

‘I wasn’t referring to that,’ I hissed. ‘We’re on the right floor. Somewhere about here is the leak.’

‘Gotcha,’ said Sid. ‘We’ll take a side each. Start hollering when your hooter delivers the goods.’ So saying, he stepped forward briskly and smashed his nut against a fire extinguisher. I was still laughing when I put my foot in a fire bucket. The corridor was dark as forgotten toast. The rain still sluicing down outside. Thunder and lightning sounding off like an artillery barrage. It was difficult to concentrate on anything except being afraid. I had never liked storms ever since I was a little boy and tried to climb into bed with Mum only to find that Dad had got there first. He explained that he was working a magic spell to make the storm go away and that I had to go back to my room or nothing would happen. I had just got to the top of the bannisters when the bed collapsed. The storm went on for another two hours. In that way children’s faith is destroyed. ‘Over here,’ called Sid. ‘Blimey, what a niff! Mind how you go, and get the windows open.’

Nostrils pressed together like the petals of a dead flower, I pushed into the room after Sid and made for the nearest window. The lights were still on in some of the neighbouring blocks and they gave enough illumination for me to dodge the furniture and see that I was in an open-plan flat with a dinette and what must be the bathroom and a bedroom leading off. I forced open the window and took a few breaths of rain for which I was not totally ungrateful, before registering a sight custom-built to raise a third seam down the front of my trousers, It emanated from a window of the flats opposite and concerned a cracking looking bird in what I believe the frogs refer to as the deshabillée or a state of Ursula Undress. She was wearing a filmy black negligée and brushing her tawny hair like she had surplus energy to burn. Behind me I could hear Sid making excited noises although over something far less exciting. ‘I think it’s down here somewhere. By the stove.’

I made a humouring ‘uhm’ noise and continued to clock the feast of feisty flesh opposite. After another half-dozen strokes the bird got bored with brushing her hair and, pushing it back over her shoulders, gracefully shrugged her way out of her negligée. Beneath it she was wearing a black bra that contributed more uplift than you would get on six weeks of Stars on Sundays and a pair of lace-trimmed black cami-knickers.

‘Timmy! I found it. Pass us the light.’ Out of the corner of my eye I could see Sid’s bum wiggling in the air and his hand groping for the torch which was somewhere behind him. I quickly decided that the sight was not worth a corner of my eye. There were better things to concentrate on. The girl had now arched her back and was unpopping her bra. My eyeballs beat her to the unpopping by a couple of seconds. What a lovely pair of bristols. She must have had strong back muscles or her nut would have cracked against something every time she bent over. She reached forward to her dressing table and picked up a jar. I don’t know what was in it but it clearly was not strawberry jam because she started massaging it into her breasts. Oh dear, nobody can understand the pain it causes me to see a woman doing a man’s job. I watched for a few more Y-front-straining moments.

‘Light!’ Sid snapped his fingers and my hand dutifully moved to my breast pocket. I don’t smoke but I am always prepared to help somebody to kill himself. The girl had now rubbed her hands over her belly and hitched her thumbs over the edge of her panties. With a delicious shimmy she wriggled them down to ankle level and stepped out of them. I wondered why it had gone misty outside and then realized that it was my breath steaming up the window pane.

‘Light!’ The niff of gas was pretty potent by this time but I was not thinking about that as I unbuttoned the pocket and pulled out the battered lighter I found on a 49 bus. I flipped back the top and pressed my finger against the flint. Opposite the bird was down to what she was born in but looking much better in it. My finger pressed tighter against the flint. I would not half of minded striking a few sparks off her. As I watched mesmerized, she straddled a chair that had its back to the dressing table and then picked up her hairbrush, but by the brush end. Curious and fascinated I leant forward eagerly. The window was starting to steam up again.

‘Light!!’ I flicked the lighter a couple of times and rubbed the window. The girl spread her legs wide and then inserted the handle of the brush through the back of the chair frame. Not only through the chair frame. Blimey! In my excitement I flicked double hard at the lighter and a flame appeared.

‘NO!!!!’

Funny, I can remember the scene as if it was yesterday. The look on Sid’s face, the smell of gas, the flame, the sudden realization that I had done something rather silly. And then – BOOM!!

CHAPTER TWO

If I have to select a moment when my relationship with Sid really started going downhill fast it must be when he came round and saw me sitting beside the bed. His eyes opened and he slowly began to focus. ‘It’s me, Sid,’ I said gently. ‘Fancy a fag?’

I suppose, on reflection, I rushed the gesture a bit. I should have guessed that he might still feel a bit touchy about the sight of my lighter stretching out towards him. Especially as he had not woken up since he last saw it. His eyes seemed to catch light and then his head jerked back so fast that his turban of bandages nearly fell off. He let out a strange strangulated cry and threw himself at my throat. It was a stupid thing to do at the best of times but doubly so with his leg in traction. Something went wrong with the balance of the weights and he was whipped up to the ceiling. Poor Sid, I did feel sorry for him. Especially after what that stupid nurse did. Rosie Dixon, I think she was called. I know she meant well but what a stupid place to leave a bed pan. If she had wanted to fiddle with the weights she should have left it underneath the bed. As it was of course – whoosh! One minute Sid is dangling over the chipped enamel, the next, everybody is locking shoulders in the swing doors. I only looked back once. I mean, you don’t need a description, do you? It was worse than when Aunty Flo nudged the chocolate blancmange into the electric fan. At least it ensured that poor Sid got a private room. In fact he said that nobody came near him for three days. They used to push the thermometer through the door wedged in the end of a cleft stick.

What was so unjust about the incident was that he blamed me for everything. It made me glad that I had taken his grapes with me when I left. Sid can be very petty sometimes. He was still sulking when he dropped in for a cup of tea at 17, Scraggs Lane. That was a few weeks later of course. After he had been discharged. He was still wearing the head bandage and I think he had begun to fancy himself in it. The wounded hero touch. It also warded off evil in the shape of Dad. Dad could hardly chuck Sid down the steps when he was convalescing. That was what Sid thought, anyway.

‘Another cup of tea, Sid?’

Sid’s hand darted over his cup. Few men can stand more than one of Mum’s cups of tea in a four or five hour period without hearing from their Newingtons. Sometimes I think of those pictures of nice Indian ladies with sheets round their heads plucking away at the leaves with the Assam hills in the background and feel glad that they don’t have to taste their handiwork once it gets into Mum’s hands. If they did they would probably chuck it all in and become snake charmers.

‘No thanks,’ said Sid. He let out a slight groan and touched the side of his bandage with an exaggerated wince.

Mum looked at him sympathetically. ‘You were unlucky weren’t you, Sid? When you think that Timmy came out of it all unscathed.’

Now the wince was genuine. Why couldn’t Mum keep her big mouth shut? Sid looked at me and I could read the expression in his eyes. If you had been slightly maimed, it said, I wouldn’t feel so bad. I’m afraid Sid is like that. Very human. ‘It’s not a subject I care to dwell on,’ he said with cold dignity, drumming his fingers on the table the while. Actually, he drummed one of them against the marmalade spoon and it jumped in the air and smeared all the way down the front of his tie, but we pretended not to notice. Sid surveyed us all with undisguised loathing. ‘I came round here to say goodbye.’

‘Goodbye?’ cried Mum. Where are you going?’

‘My own way,’ said Sid. ‘From this moment on I’m ploughing a lonely furrow.’

‘Farming?’ said Dad. ‘I’ve always thought you had the fingernails for it. But where are you going to farm around here? You’ll have to move out to Croydon or somewhere like that.’

‘I was employing a figure of speech,’ said Sid bitterly. ‘About all I can afford to employ at the moment thanks to laughing boy here.’

‘But what about the business?’ asked Mum. ‘“Emergency Disasters”.’

‘The Noglea Emergency Service,’ hissed Sid through clenched teeth. ‘That is now folded up.’ He laughed hollowly. ‘Not unlike the front half of my mini van.’

I did not say anything. This was another subject that Sid was touchy about. When the flat exploded, the cooker and the fridge went out of the window and landed on the van. It was unfortunate but none of us was spared discomfort. I had to walk home after we had dropped Sid off at the hospital.

‘Are you trying to say that you and Timmy aren’t going to work together any more?’ said Mum.

‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to say,’ said Sid. ‘My legendary patience has finally disappeared up the spout. I have lost count of the wonderful career opportunities on which the dead hand of Lea has put the mockers. From now on we’re finished. F–I–N–’ he started to spell it out and then came to a halt. His spelling was no better than Mum’s.

‘N–’ prompted Mum.

‘There’s only one N in “finish”, you stupid old moo,’ Dad jeered.

‘Blimey, you don’t know nothing about the English Language, do you?’

‘F–I– We’re through!’ shouted Sid.

‘T–H–R–E–W,’ added Mum triumphantly.

At that moment the front door bell rang and Mum went to look through the lace curtains in the front room. Nobody casually chucks their front door open in Scraggs Lane. There might be some suspicious character lurking there. Like a copper.

I must say that Sid’s words took me back a bit. We had been through a lot together – and I am not just talking about birds. Of course we had had our ups and downs – and I am not just talking about birds – but when all was said and done and the water had been passed under the bridge – or against the police station wall – I thought we had a bond between us stronger than anything I would have cared to put into words without a packet of Kleenex handy. Now it seemed that all this was over. The idea took a bit of getting used to. I was so overcome that I remember helping myself to a second cup of tea. Only a warning glance from Dad stopped me from drinking it.

Mum came in holding an airmail letter. ‘It’s from America.’

‘If they want you to support the dollar, they’ve come to the wrong bloke, eh Sid?’ Dad laughed heartily at his little joke while Sid squeezed his teacup so hard that the handle came off.

‘Why didn’t they shove it through the letter box?’ said Dad.

‘Because it was under-stamped,’ Mum explained. ‘The address was wrong as well. It’s been all over the place.’

‘Must be from your sister then,’ said Dad. ‘Mean and stupid. She must have got married again.’

‘She’s only got married twice,’ snapped Mum. ‘That’s nothing in America.’ Mum’s sister Eileen was a G.I. bride. She went to live in Washington at the end of the war – the one that finished in 1945 – and had never been back. Normally we got a Christmas card with news flowing over onto the back, but this was not Christmas.

‘Open it up then,’ said Dad. ‘Let’s see what the old bag’s been up to. Fancy marrying again at her age. Its disgusting.’

‘You don’t know she’s getting married again,’ said Mum, rummaging through her bag for her spectacles. ‘When she last wrote she was very happy with Dwight.’

‘Dwight,’ said Dad, puckering up his mouth. ‘Fancy being called Dwight. It sounds like a plant disease.’

Mum tore the envelope open and made a ‘tcch’ noise. ‘Ooh. This has taken a long time getting here.’ She read on. ‘One of the children is coming over. Harper. Do you remember a Harper, Walter?’

‘No,’ said Dad. ‘Must be a grandchild. What diabolical names they do lumber their kiddies with. Poor little boy.’

I did not say anything. I remembered how they used to take the piss out of me at school because I was called Timothy.

Mum was still reading the letter. ‘She asks if we can put the child up.’

‘Typical!’ grumbled Dad. ‘I don’t know why we don’t turn this place into a guest house and have done with it.’

‘Don’t be unreasonable, Walter,’ said Mum. ‘It’s the first thing she’s ever asked us to do except send the Marmite – Oh no!’

‘What is it? Does she want some more Marmite? It’s out of the question. The postage on the—’

‘The child is arriving today!’ Mum’s voice was panic-striken. ‘Ten o’clock at Heathrow Airport! What are we going to do?’

‘Stupid Twits!’ said Dad. ‘You mean they sent the kiddy off without waiting for a reply?’

‘Eileen says “If everything’s all right, don’t bother to reply”.’

‘I always knew she was a daft ha’p’worth!’

‘That’s neither here nor there,’ said Mum. ‘It’s the child we’ve got to think about. How long will it take to get to Heathrow?’

‘At least an hour unless we get a taxi,’ I chipped in.

‘A taxi?’ I might have asked Dad to fill a petrol drum with his own blood. He turned to Sid. ‘What about your van?’

‘What about my van!!?’ Now Sid started to shout. ‘It was a write-off, wasn’t it?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘Did the insurance pay up?’

Sid looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes, well – er in a manner of speaking, yes. They made a ridiculous offer that I was eventually compelled to accept. Muggins lost out as usual.’ Sid stood up. ‘Right, that’s it. I’ve said what I wanted to say. I will now leave you to grapple with this latest self-inflicted disaster. No doubt we will see each other at Christmas. I don’t know which one but—’

‘What have you done with the insurance money, Sid?’ I asked softly. ‘I mean, I was contributing to the down payments on that van, wasn’t I? It was one of the fringe benefits I was getting instead of a salary.’

At this point Sid began to look uncomfortable and Mum turned her beady eye on him. ‘That old car outside the front door. Who does that belong to?’

‘That is my car,’ said Sid, with a firmness that was almost vicious. ‘Paid for with my money. Taxed and insured with my money – or it will be when I can get around to it.’

‘Where’s my money then?’ I said.

Mum held up a restraining hand. ‘You can talk about that later. Right now I think the least you can do is go and meet little Harper. We can’t have him wandering round London Airport by himself.’

Sid’s face screwed up like an old sock. ‘Lumbered to the bitter end,’ he groaned. ‘I should have known better than to come round here. Right—!’ He banged his fist down on the table and the marmalade spoon performed a couple of somersaults and landed up in his breast pocket. I refrained from applauding. ‘Let it be known that this is the last service that I will perform for you lot. Once I have delivered the infant Harper into your clutches I will be leaving this house for ever. The fluff from your sitting-room carpet will never fill my turn-ups again.’ So saying, he stood up smartly pausing only to crack his knee on the underside of the table.

He was still worked up as we sped down the M4 in what I read on the bonnet to be an Armstrong Siddeley. The name was familiar to me. Like Boadicea or the Ancient Bede. ‘Make no mistake,’ he said. ‘I meant what I said back there. This is the parting of the ways.’

‘I’m sorry, Sid,’ I blurted. ‘I’m sorry for everything. Are you really serious?’ I don’t know why I was going on like this because I had often thought I needed my brain examined to keep tagging along with Sid’s disastrous schemes. However, when it came to the crunch, there I was, grovelling with the best of them.

‘I’ve never been more serious in my life,’ said Sid. An edgy hand snaked into the glove compartment and emerged with a fag which he shoved between his lips. Eager to show willing, I snatched out the cigarette lighter and then found that it was one of the knobs on the walnut fascia. I quickly tossed it aside before Sid could say anything and got hold of the right article. With exquisite care I applied it to the end of Sid’s fag and waited for the maestro to do the necessary. There was a squeal of brakes in front of us and Sid stepped on the anchors. When I looked back at the ciggy it was concertinaed against the noble lips with the lighter nearly inside Sid’s cakehole. His mince pies were peering down towards it like they might tilt out of his nut. I waited a few seconds and then realized that Sid had lost interest in this particular cigarette. ‘You might as well throw it away,’ he said slowly and bitterly. I don’t know what came over me then. I knew he meant the cigarette but it was the lighter that I chucked out of the window. I emitted a nervous shriek when I realized what I had done and promptly pressed the remains of the fag into the hole where the lighter lived. Sid looked at me suspiciously but did not notice what had happened.

We whipped round a roundabout and entered the long tunnel that leads to the airport. ‘Terminal Three,’ I said helpfully.

‘I know, I know,’ snapped Sid. ‘I’ve got to park, haven’t I? Keep your feet on the mats. This car represents all I have left in the world. I want to keep it nice.’ A thought occurred to him and his brow started to unroll over his eyes like a shop blind. ‘If that horrible little kid starts smearing bubble gum all over the upholstery he’ll get to Clapham as a jigsaw puzzle.’

I did not say anything because I knew that there was no point in talking to Sid when he was in one of his moods. You just had to wait for him to become himself again – not that that was worth hanging around for if there was anything good on the telly.

We went through the traffic lights, past the filling station and up a ramp. The entrance to the car park was via a slip road on the left. Sid stopped at the white pole and a geezer wearing a Sikh’s turban stuck his head out of the kiosk and started addressing Sid in Hindustani. It took me a moment to understand what was happening and then I realized that he had mistaken Sid’s bandage for a turban. Laugh? I thought I’d never stop. Until I saw Sid looking at me. Then I stopped immediately. Sid is tragically slow to see a joke against himself.

We parked the car in silence and not a word was spoken until we reached the arrivals board. Sid looked up at the flashing lights and groaned. ‘The flight’s in. Typical. The day we arrive there has to be a tail wind across the Atlantic. Normally they’d be stacking over Shannon.’

I did not ask him what he was talking about but looked down the hall towards the ‘Arrivals’ gate. Standing with his back to us was a small figure wearing a stetson and high-heeled cowboy boots. Sid followed my eyes and his lip began to curl. ‘That must be him,’ he said. ‘Blimey, what a twit. The kids down Scraggs Lane aren’t half going to give him a going over. I reckon even Jason could handle him.’

Jason Noggett was my brother-in-law’s first-born and as about as handy with his fists as Dame Edith Summerskill. Sadistic, mean and untrustworthy – but no exponent of the noble art.

Sid loped off and I was about to follow him when I glanced through the glass wall into the baggage claim area. Imagine my surprise – go on, I dare you – when my peepers collided with a large carpet bag that had just been lifted off the conveyor belt. On its side in large italic letters was woven the word ‘Harper’. My eyes panned up from the bag and – wow! – what a favour they did themselves. A bird not unlike Farrah Fawcett Thingamybobs was shaking her blonde curls and gazing hopefully for sight of more baggage. I did no more than establish that she was about nineteen years old and definitely a looker of the first magnitude before turning back to grab Sid. Clearly there had been a misunderstanding or an amazing coincidence. ‘Sid—’ My voice struck him firmly between the ear holes but he did not stop. Before I could get close to him, he had sailed up to the American kid and grabbed it by the arm.

‘OK Hopalong Cassidy. Where’s your bag?’

At that point, both Sid and I got a big surprise. The kid turned round to reveal that it had a goatee beard and a moustache. It was obviously very old for its age. Say, about fifty. Sid’s surprise was in fact rather larger than mine because the bloke did not kick me in the instep. Sid let out an agonized shriek and flung back his fist to let one go. I could tell immediately that this was not a good idea. Immediately I saw the geezer standing behind Sid. He was about seven feet tall and made Frankenstein’s monster look like Petula Clark. His great mitt slammed down on Sid’s wrist and within seconds my brother-in-law’s feet were tap dancing eighteen inches off the ground whilst he got a close-up view of the bloke’s fillings.

‘Sid,’ I said, reaching up and tapping him on the back. ‘That’s not him. There’s been a mistake.’ I never found out if Sid was grateful for the information because the little guy spat out a couple of words and the big one let go of what used to be Sid’s lapels. There was a noise like a bomb dropping and Sid landed in an untidy heap on the floor. Colonel Saunders and his mate strode off. ‘Over here,’ I said, eager to get away from the scene of this embarrassing incident. ‘I think that’s Harper.’ I pointed through the sliding doors where the carpet bag had now been joined by a vanity case. Sid shook his head and took in the sight. ‘You fool,’ he snapped. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before? Thank gawd I won’t have to put up with your snivelling incompetence much longer.’ So saying he stepped forward briskly through the sliding doors that had opened to let out a customs official. They promptly closed on his shoulders and for one interesting moment I thought they were going to meet in the middle of his windpipe. But they opened again and I slipped through as about half a dozen blokes in dark blue suits converged on Sid to ask what he thought he was doing. The bird with the carpet bag turned to see what all the commotion was about and I was swiftly at her side.

‘Hi,’ I said in my best transatlantic manner. ‘Is your name Harper?’

‘It sure is,’ she said, turning on a big hundred-watt smile. ‘You’re not Timmy, are you?’

‘Every throbbing corpuscle.’ The sound of heavy breathing alerted me to the presence of my brother-in-law. ‘And this is Sid.’

‘Gee. I never expected your father to come along as well, I feel real honoured.’

I winced on Sid’s behalf as he took a deep breath. ‘Don’t let my mature man-of-the-world suavity confuse you, Harper,’ he said through gritted teeth. My only relationship with Timothy is thankfully one of marriage.’

‘You’re married?’ said Harper brightly. ‘Gee, England is so liberated these days.’

‘He’s married to my sister Rosie,’ I explained quickly.

‘Oh of course. Sidney Noggett. I’ve seen you on the Christmas cards.’ She made Sid sound like a robin. ‘You’re Timmy’s partner, aren’t you?’

‘Was’, said Sid firmly. ‘All that is behind me. Once I deliver you safely to Mrs Lea I will never be darkening their bath towels again. I could go on and explain why, but the details are probably too harrowing for a young girl raised in the colonies.’ I could tell from all the old bunny that Sid was quite impressed with our Harper but his desire to get shot of me was too strong to be set aside. It was all rather hurtful really.

‘I hope it all works out for the best for the both of you,’ said Harper winsomely. ‘Say Sid, would it be awful inconvenient if we passed through the city of London on the way to the house? I’m supposed to see a solicitor very urgently. That’s really why I’m here.’

I could see Sid’s mug settling in to an unhelpful expression so I stepped in quickly. ‘Of course not, Harper. No trouble at all. Are these all your bags?’

I ignored Sid’s nasty frown and followed her pointing arm.

‘Just that one on the top. I’m afraid it’s a little difficult to reach.’

‘The big one?’ I asked.

‘That’s right.’ It was about the size of a cabin trunk yet having the shape of a folded mattress secured by straps. It was balanced on top of a lot of other stuff as if the baggage men had been playing sand castles. Eager to prove that the spirit of English chivalry was not dead I sprang onto the conveyor belt. ‘OK I’ll get it.’

I suppose, in a way, I was right. I did get it. Right in the mush. Hardly had I started grappling with the pile of bags than some thoughtless sod tried to drag his golf clubs out from underneath me and brought the whole lot down. For a few seconds I performed a grape-treading motion whilst staggering backwards under the weight of Harper’s enormous case. Then I collapsed and was swept down the opening where the conveyor belt re-loops. I caught a glimpse of Sid turning round to look for me and then he was snatched from view by the rubber flaps. It was a horrible experience. I can think of a million better ways of spending Christmas. Hardly had I wriggled clear of the golf clubs than another ton of luggage showered down on me from out of the darkness. Bits and pieces of things were sticking into me from all angles. I felt like a new temp at the office Christmas party. Not only that, but as if I had been taken back to my childhood. It was like being on the magic train at Arding and Hobbs which took you to Father Christmas’s grotto. Round the bend I went and there at the end of the tunnel I could see light. Still struggling, I copped a twelve-inch strip of rubber in the cakehole and emerged to find not Father Christmas but Sid. The expression on his face made previous attempts at depicting loathing seem almost half-hearted. ‘You—!’ he began.

He did not have time to finish because an elderly gent in a checked suit elbowed him aside and attempted to retrieve his golf clubs. Normally he would have had my blessing but on this occasion most of the clubs were wedged up my trouser leg – head first. I found out the latter bit when Colonel Blimp gave a vicious wrench which achieved a hole in one – a hole in one of my trouser legs.

‘Where are my balls!?’ he kept shouting. I felt like asking the same question but was prevented by the fact that I was still screaming in agony. The conveyor belt stopped and Sid hauled me off.

As usual he was a tower of support. ‘You stupid twit!’ he hissed, blushing scarlet. ‘Why do you always have to make an exhibition of yourself? I can’t stand the humiliation.’

I stood up and four golf balls rolled out of my trouser legs – two from each side. Colonel Blimp fell on them greedily.

Sid was so worked up that he actually carried one of the bags until we were through customs. Then it was back to me and a tight-lipped silence ensued as we walked back across the ramp to the car park. They walked, I staggered. It was strange but, looking back, I think that that is when I first had the sensation of foreboding. It was not just that Sid’s face was black as the clouds looming overhead but something more. Something indefinable. The car park was cold and gloomy and a sneaky wind was chasing an old fag packet amongst the concrete pillars. There was nobody to be seen and yet I had the feeling that we were being watched. We came to an intersection and I turned my head to look up one of the aisles of parked cars. Just for a second, a figure was framed in the square of light at the end of the row. Then it disappeared. Maybe I am imagining all this because of what happened later but I don’t think so.

After three wrong turnings we found the car and I saw Sid looking towards Harper expectantly. He obviously reckoned that she was going to be impressed with his new toy. ‘Is this your automobile, Sid?’ she asked. ‘Gee. I never knew you were in the antique business.’ Sid’s face dropped a couple of miles.

‘This is a British automobile, Harper,’ he said sternly, really spelling it out. ‘Not one of your blooming great American mouth organs on wheels. We call them cars, as well.’

Harper seemed quite unconcerned. ‘I suppose it is kinda cute,’ she said, after reflection. ‘Back in the States we have something about twice the size of this we call a compact.’

The boot was locked so I put the bags down and went to Sid for the key. He was still trying to sell Harper on the car. ‘This model was the pride of the range, you know. There were people crying outside the factory when they brought in the new version.’

‘Yes,’ I said smartly. ‘All the people who had bought the old one.’ Harper laughed agreeably at my little sally but I could see that it had not gone down too well with Sid. ‘Put the bags in the boot!’ he snapped.

‘The boot?’ said Harper, looking at my feet.

‘He means the trunk,’ I explained.

‘I mean the boot,’ snarled Sid. ‘Harper is in England now. Home of the English language. Elephants have trunks, cars have boots!’ Harper and I exchanged a glance and I went back to the baggage. It was strange but I could have sworn that I had left the vanity case on top of the large bag. Now it was on the ground. I did not think much about it at the time. Later, I did.

The boot was not big enough for all the baggage so I took the vanity case in the back with me. Harper was in the front with Sid. We handed over a few rupees to Sid’s mate and were soon heading for Harper’s first taste of British driving conditions: the traffic jam into London that starts shortly after you leave the airport. Harper looked at Sid’s nut and I realized with a sinking heart that she was about to ask the inevitable question. ‘What did you do to your head, Sid?’

‘I didn’t do anything to it. He did.’ He nodded at me over his shoulder and I smiled winsomely. This was obviously the moment for a change of subject.

‘What does the solicitor want to see you about, Harper?’ I asked.

Her big blue eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘I don’t really know anything yet. It’s something to do with the English branch of the family. I’ve never met any of them. The Deneuves who live near Dartmoor. Do you know them?’

‘I know Dartmoor,’ I said. It might have been my imagination but I thought I saw Sid’s shoulders flinch. Rumour had it that a not too distant relation in the Noggett family did a stretch on the moor for robbing a bank. One of the last brushes with money that the family ever had. ‘Harper, there’s one thing I don’t understand,’ I continued. ‘Are you saying that your name is Deneuve? I thought Aunty Eileen had married somebody called Eikelberger.’

‘It’s kinda complicated,’ replied Harper, giving me the undivided attention of her melting mince pies. ‘Before Eileen married Dwight Eikelberger she was married to my father. I was his child by a previous marriage. Mom died when I was very young. When poor pop died I was the only Deneuve left.’

‘So we’re not really related at all,’ I mused, relishing the good news. ‘There’d be nothing to prevent us getting married.’

Sid groaned. ‘Only the fact that you’ve only known each other for ten minutes.’ He shoved an irritable hand into the glove compartment and fed himself a fag. A fresh feeling of unease held me in its grip. Now Sid was going to find out about the lighter. I fiddled for my own lighter – but too late. Sid pressed his fingers against the spot where he expected to find the lighter and then into the hole. As he looked down, puzzled, there was a little flash and he tore his hand away with a piercing scream. It quite made me jump, it did. Not as high as Sid though. His bandaged nut made a dent in the roof of the car. Poor old sod. With anyone else you would have felt sorry for him. After that the journey continued with a lot more silence and Harper trying to find a landmark to take a photograph of. Not easy when about the only building of merit is where Beechams make their little pills. We were approaching Hammersmith when Sid deigned to speak.

‘Where’s this address you want to go to, Harper?’

‘Oh yeah.’ She turned to me. ‘It’s in the letter just inside my vanity case. Somewhere near a saloon called Gray’s Inn. Can you get it out, Timmy?’

‘Right away.’ Ever eager to oblige, I popped the case up on my lap and flicked open the clips. To my surprise I was not looking at little feminine goodies but an alarm clock strapped to a couple of sticks of rock. Where they came from it was difficult to say because there was no lettering running through the candy. I glanced at the time on the clock. One minute to twelve. It bore no relation to the real time. ‘You’d better reset your travelling clock now you’re in England,’ I said.

Harper looked puzzled. ‘What travelling clock?’ We both stared into the case and when I next heard Harper’s voice it sounded even more surprised. That’s not my case.’

Sid turned his nut to take a gander and I will never forget the expression on his face if I live to be twenty-five. His eyes took over his face like two bloodshot raw eggs tipped onto a couple of saucers. ‘It’s a bomb!’ he screamed. ‘Chuck it out!’

The thought was not slow in occurring to me, especially as I had a nasty feeling that the minute hand approaching twelve o’clock could signify bang-bang time. I grabbed the window handle and started unwinding fast. Maybe too fast. The handle was still turning in my mitt but it was not attached to the door any more. Funny how you panic sometimes, isn’t it? Maybe funny is not the right word. Everybody in the car was going berserk. Sid started off by putting his foot down as if he hoped to leave the bomb behind and then realized that he was still carrying it with him. Harper was trying to open doors and windows all over the car and I was attempting to force the case over Sid’s shoulder so that I could push it out of his window. Unfortunately, in my eagerness, I pushed his nut against the dashboard so we ran into the car in front. At this point we were going over the Hammersmith Flyover and I must say that Sid acted with commendable courage and determination. Pausing only to clip another car he bounced the motor up against the parapet with an ugly scraping sound – I think it came from the car but it might have been Sid – and flung open the door. This did not do the paintwork any good but that seemed the least of our worries at the time. Without a word that I would care to repeat in a book that might fall into the hands of those of genteel upbringing he snatched the case from my hands and hurled it over the parapet.

Now of course Sid meant to chuck the bomb into somebody’s back garden but it is amazing how panic lends you strength. It is also amazing how close some of those houses are to the flyover. If you doubt me, here was a case in point. Only a few seconds after the case had left Sid’s fingers we heard the tinkle of breaking glass followed by a loud explosion. My heart dropped lower than Idi Amin’s bottom lip. Hardly daring to look, we got out and peered over the parapet.

Oh dear, what a sight met our eyes! This poor old lady sitting in her bath and looking up at us through the hole in the wall where the bathroom window used to be. Even as we watched, another few bricks fell down on top of the shed below. ‘Are you all right?’ I shouted. ‘It’s all right. It was a bomb.’ I was worried that she might think it was a gas leak, you see.

Well, I have to confess that I was surprised. Where a nice-looking old lady learned that kind of language I just cannot imagine. As for what I assumed was her old man in the outdoor karsi – no, it wasn’t a shed – he did not even have the good manners to pull up his trousers before he started sounding off at us. I was quite embarrassed for Harper.

‘Come on,’ said Sid nervously, starting to edge back to the car. ‘They’re all right. Probably due for rehousing anyway.’

‘Or at least a redevelopment grant,’ I said.

Still shaking, we jumped into the car and drove off. Nobody talked very much. We were all thinking what would have happened if the bomb had gone off on my lap. One bang I could certainly have done without.

‘I can’t get over it,’ said Sid. ‘How could we have picked up the wrong bag?’

‘Maybe it wasn’t us,’ said Harper slowly.

‘What do you mean?’ said Sid.

‘Maybe somebody switched the bags.’

‘But that would mean they wanted to kill us,’ said Sid.

‘That’s right,’ said Harper soberly.

‘But—’ cried Sid. Then his voice sort of tailed away. You had to think about the implications of what had happened to us but the more you did so, the more frightened you got.

CHAPTER THREE

For the rest of the journey to Grays Inn I was very jumpy. Very jumpy indeed. I even had the feeling that there was a black limousine following us. Every time we took a turn it seemed to be a few cars behind. It disappeared just after we had passed Chancery Lane and I felt better.

Sid was beginning to feel more like his old self as well. ‘I know, I know!’ he said when I told him I thought we were getting near the address Harper had given us. ‘Don’t think I’m not counting the moments. You realize there must be about three hundred quid’s worth of damage done to this car.’

‘I’m real sorry, Sid,’ said Harper soothingly. ‘Won’t the insurance pay?’ This did not go down very well because, of course, Sid had not got around to insuring his motor. ‘I was going to do that this morning,’ he snapped.

‘The chambers should be just along here,’ I said, always trying to avoid an incident.

I thought a chamber was something you went to the john in,’ said Harper innocently. Sid ground his teeth.

‘It means a lawyer’s offices,’ I told her.

‘All these new words. I must start making a list. I’d never heard of a solicitor until Eileen told me it was a writing lawyer. Now a barrister, he’s a talking lawyer isn’t he?’

‘A barrister is a barrister,’ snarled Sid. ‘Why do you keep having to change the English language?’

‘Here we are, Sid,’ I said to avoid any argument. ‘Number eleven. I can see the sign. Wittering, Stammers and Crachit.’ We had come through an archway and were in a little square of old buildings with a balcony running round and staircases going up into each set of offices. There were pots of flowers on the balcony and a lime tree in the middle of some cobblestones. It was all very picturesque. Harper clearly thought so. ‘Gee,’ she said. ‘This is really Dickensian. I gotta to take a picture of this for the folks back home.’

She sprang out of the car and started snapping everything that did not move. Sid was only interested in his car. He was practically sobbing as he examined the smashed headlight and the dented wing. ‘I blame you for this, you stupid berk!’ he hissed. ‘You and your blooming relations. I can’t wait to see the back of both of you. I’ve a good mind to give you your tube fares and tell you to piss off.’

‘I’m sorry about the car, Sid,’ I said. ‘I—’ I broke off because the wing mirror that I had accidentally nudged had dropped off into the gutter. Luckily Sid was clocking Harper’s rear view as she bent to photograph an antique foot scraper so I swept the mirror under the car with my foot.

‘Cracking looking bird,’ I leered.

‘Uhm.’ Sid was not prepared to commit himself to a favourable impression. I knew he fancied it but he was trying to turn his lust into hate so that it made a neat twosome with his detestation of me. ‘She’s all right if you like American birds. Come on, let’s get inside and get this whole blooming business over with before anything else goes wrong.’

There Sid had a point and I was not loath (good word, eh?) to lead the way up the creaking wooden staircase. I could see what Harper meant about Dickensian. It was very old-fashioned. Right down to the bell that tinkled when I pulled the stopper next to the highly polished brass plate. The geezer who opened the door was no chicken either. He wore a pair of pince-nez on the end of a beaky nose and his back was bent like a shepherd’s crook. The dandruff on his scruffy black jacket was thick enough to show up a yeti’s footprints and you could have gone blind looking for a crease in his shiny pinstripe trousers. He craned forward and blinked at Harper. ‘Ah, Mr Thistlethwaite. Backgam and Winjer versus the Metropolitan Water Board. Come in, come in. Is the overflow still causing your mother aggravation?’

I followed Harper and Sid into the room. Inside what was an outer office were a high writing desk with a ledger on it and a number of tables littered with dust-covered legal documents tied up with ribbons.

Harper was clearly puzzled by her first exposure to the British legal system. ‘I’m Harper Deneuve,’ she said. ‘Mr Wittering wanted to see me.’

The old buzzard scratched his head with a quill pen. ‘Wittering? Wittering? It rings a bell.’ Before anybody could say anything he started shifting through the piles of paper on one of the tables. Dust rose in clouds. ‘Wittering, Wittering. Ah, yes! Witterham and Muffles versus Acton Borough Council. Refusal to licence nude bingo parlour. Appeal against same. Wait a minute. Witterham. No, that’s not Wittering, is it?’ I was all for agreeing with him but the inner door opened and a commanding looking man of about forty swept in. He had the sort of upper-class look of disdain mixed with effortless authority that would make you immediately sign over your grandma’s pension fund monies to any annuity he cared to mention. He looked from us with distaste to the old geezer with contempt. ‘What is it, Sculp?’

Sculp was galvanized as if he had been plugged into electricity. ‘Ah, Mr Wittering—’ the name obviously rang a bell and suddenly it all came flooding back. ‘Mr Wittering! You are Mr Wittering!’

I was glad for Sculp’s sake that Wittering did not have a riding crop in his hand. As it was, the words cut with the force of a lash. ‘Get back to your ledger, Sculp!’

Sculp hopped back to his seat at the high desk like a budgie to its perch. Wittering turned to us and his face split into a smile of transparent insincerity. ‘Forgive him. He’s been with the firm, man and cretin, for more years than any of us care to remember. Now, what can I do for you?’

The last six words were delivered with a hard edge that really meant ‘don’t waste my time, peasants’.

Harper swallowed hard. ‘My name is Harper Deneuve.’

I have seen some quick change acts in my time but Wittering’s switch from haughty disinterest to ultra-grovel was really something. ‘Deneuve?’ He might have been reacting to a new perfume. ‘My dear young lady. No words can adequately express my delight in making your acquaintance. Pray step inside my inner sanctum.’ He was practically bowing as he swept an arm towards the door from which he had emerged.

Harper took half a step forward and then hesitated. She turned towards us. ‘I guess you don’t know these gentlemen. They’re sort of distant cousins a few times removed. They very kindly met me at the airport.’

‘How delightful.’ Wittering’s smile bathed us in grease before he extended his arm again. ‘Enter, all of you. There can never be too many ears to hear good news.’ I glanced at Sid and saw his nose give a familiar quiver. It was like a rabbit walking into a field of carrots. Wittering waved us towards some chairs and swung round to face a mullioned window. His hands strayed beneath the tail of his jacket as if he was speaking in court. Eager once again to show Harper that I cared, I snatched up a chair by its arms so that I could place it smoothly behind her. Regrettably, the arms moved but the chair stayed behind. Sid picked up the chair by its back and placed it behind Harper. She sat down and smiled gratefully at Sid. I was stuck with two chair arms. Looking round carefully to make sure that no one was watching, I dropped them discreetly into a wastepaper basket and leaned against a wall. You can usually trust an old wall.

Wittering spun round like we were playing Grandma’s Footsteps and he wanted to catch us all out. His eyes blazed. ‘Fortunate lady and gentlemen,’ said he. ‘Let there be no beating about the bush. Let the bugle call sound. Let the muezzin call the glad tiding to the multitude from the highest tower. Let there be no impediment to the delivery of the glorious news. Let there be no shilly-shallying or dilly-dallying. Let there be no wasting of time in coming to the point—’

He went on in this vein for what felt like hours until, just when I thought I was going to scream, the telephone rang and he kicked it onto the floor. That seemed to buck him up a bit. ‘Yes, my dear,’ he warbled, giving Harper the full benefit of his beautifully capped gnashers. ‘You are a very fortunate young lady. No doubt your much lamented father told you how he became estranged from his English forbears and went to seek his fortune in the New World?’

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