Strangeways to Oldham Read online

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Clutching the piece of paper with the name ‘Freeman, Hardy, Williams and Williams’ and an address in East Street in her hand, she walked thoughtfully out to her trike, placed the piece of paper carefully in her handbag, put it in the front basket of the vehicle, and made her way back to Belchester Towers, determined to make a proper appointment to visit Reggie’s solicitor. She’d almost suspected the name of the law firm to be fictitious, when she had first learnt it. ‘Sounds just like a shoe shop we used to have in the town,’ she’d muttered under her breath, when she’d read it, but it obviously wasn’t.

  But she must make a good fist of this next part of the exercise. It wouldn’t do to ‘blow it’, as she had done at the nursing home. Advance warning of who she was might make all the difference to how they treated her at the law firm, and she didn’t want just to blunder in and make the wrong impression. She’d already done that at the police station, and look where that had got her – playing at sleuth, actually!

  She’d have to get her violin out when she got home. Oh, and have a rummage around for Daddy’s old deerstalker. (Lady Amanda had undertaken tuition, in her schooldays, in playing the violin, flute and piano, and had, of course, excelled at all three!)

  Back at BelchesterTowers, she dug her violin out of the lumber room, where it had slumbered for many a year, and shoved some old sheet music on to the lectern in the library, to have a good old play. She was only halfway through the ‘March’ from Scipio (for the third time) when Hugo shuffled through the door, propelling his walking frame before him.

  ‘What’s that dreadful racket? Thought someone was torturing a cat in here, so I came to investigate,’ he asked, closing the door behind him, lest Beauchamp should become aware of the fearful row, and poke his nose in.

  ‘Bit out of practice,’ Lady Amanda excused herself. ‘Couldn’t find you when I got home, so I thought I’d look out the jolly old fiddle – Sherlock Holmes, and all that. See if it put me in the right frame of mind for this sleuthing we’ve decided to take on.’

  ‘I was having a little nap,’ explained Hugo, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘Food makes me feel rather like a snake after a large feed. I just want to curl up somewhere and snooze.’

  ‘No need to make excuses to me, Hugo. We are the age that we are, and we must just live with that. The alternative’s unthinkable. And we must, therefore, ensure that we don’t indulge in too large a feast before we have to go out investigating. Wouldn’t want to be caught asleep on the job, would we?’

  ‘I should hope not. What’s the next move then?’ asked Hugo eagerly.

  ‘I’ve made an appointment with Reggie’s solicitor for tomorrow morning. I couldn’t get a thing out of that mato at the nursing home, except for the name of his legal representative, so I thought I’d go and beard him in his den, so to speak.’

  ‘Jolly good idea. You will be gentle with him though, won’t you, Manda?’

  ‘Gentle? I’ll charm his socks off. You might not know it, but I can be darned persuasive, when I want to be.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that for one moment. So, what happens now, or is that it, for today?’ enquired Hugo, wondering if he might not be able to slip off to continue his forty winks.

  ‘We’re going outside so that you can test-drive your new mode of transport. I told you Beauchamp had finished the job. Now we need to see how you get on with the thing.’

  ‘What, right now?’ asked the elderly Hugo, disappointed that yet more action was called for.

  ‘Yes. Right now! You know there’s no such thing as a dull moment with me, old stick,’ she declared.

  ‘No such thing as a peaceful one either, if I remember correctly,’ mumbled Hugo, but he did it very quietly, not wanting to hurt her feelings, after she’d been so kind as to take him under her wing like this, and rescue him from that living grave he had been existing in before.

  His spirits raised considerably, though, when she announced that it was much later than she had thought, and that it was, once more, cocktail time, and that they must hurry inside, so as not to miss a moment of it. She had earlier instructed Beauchamp, to set out two of the ‘cocktails of the moment’ in the drawing room, and they should be waiting for them now, icy cold and deliciously relaxing.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, after breakfast, Lady Amanda requested that Beauchamp give the Rolls a bit more of a buff-up than it had needed to collect Hugo, and meet her outside the front entrance (a pro
per road-crossing having been provided, many years ago, over the old moat) at ten-thirty sharp. ‘Oh, and wear your chauffeur’s livery,’ she commanded him.

  ‘One wants to make a good impression,’ she informed her ever-patient employee, ‘and you always looked so amusing in that cap.’ This addition rather spoiled what had sounded very much like a compliment, but Beauchamp took it all in his stride, as he did Lady Amanda’s many strange ways and eccentricities, and was ready and waiting in the car, at two minutes before the half hour.

  Lady Amanda emerged as the stable clock was chiming, dressed very smartly in a silk summer suit and her best hat. (Blimey! thought Beauchamp. She is going to town.) Entering the car and settling herself comfortably, she blew through the speaking tube to get his attention. ‘Yes, my lady?’ he replied, sliding open the window between the back and the front of the car.

  ‘Oh, do use the tube, Beauchamp. It’s so much more fun if you use the tube,’ she implored him.

  ‘Yes, my lady. If you say so, my lady, but I can’t understand a word you’re saying when we use the tube. You’ll just have to tell me through this here window, and then pretend that we did it down the tube,’ he advised.

  ‘Very well, but you’re a spoilsport and a party-pooper, Beauchamp!’ she retorted.

  ‘That’s Beecham, my lady!’ he replied, but he said it down the tube, so that she wouldn’t be able to decipher what he’d said.

  ‘Take me to East Street . I have an appointment at Freeman, Hardy, Williams and Williams at eleven o’clock, and I don’t want to be late.’

  Half an hour may seem a long time, for a journey of a little more than a mile and a half, but in the ancient Rolls-Royce, it would take them all of that time to achieve their goal, and both of them understood that. The ancient vehicle shuddered to a start, and Lady Amanda set off on the next stage of her adventure.

  The receptionist at the legal firm informed her that her appointment was with young Mr Williams, so she was therefore very surprised when an ancient man with two walking sticks and only a few wisps of white hair, beckoned her into an office opposite the reception desk.

  ‘Do take a seat, Mrs ah – Mrs um …’ he quavered, creaking slowly down into the seat behind the desk; a large padded leather seat that dwarfed him, and made him look like an elderly child.

  ‘Lady Amanda Golightly,’ his client trilled, on her very best behaviour.

  ‘Speak up, Mrs – Mrs?’ young Mr Williams spake.

  ‘Lady Amanda Golightly,’ she almost shouted, and that seemed to do the trick, for he nodded his head very slowly, and muttered, ‘BelchesterTowers! Well, well, well!’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Williams, and I’m here to see you about the death of a very old family friend who has just passed away. Mr Reginald Pagnell.’ She hated euphemisms, but she could hardly have told him that Reggie had been murdered. She was on her best behaviour, and must not stray from the path.

  She was glad she was not consulting the old boy on anything confidential, for she knew that, at this volume, everything she said would be clearly audible in the reception area, and probably in the adjacent rooms as well.

  ‘Mr Pagnell? Pagnell?’ There was a pause, as the little gnome of a man gathered his woolly thoughts together. ‘Ah, yes, Pagnell! What can I do for you in respect of the late Mr Pagnell, dear lady?’

  ‘I’m trying to find his “nephew”,’ she could not help herself uttering this last word in a voice clearly indicating disbelief in the existence of such a person. ‘Apparently he had got into the habit of visiting his uncle once a month, at the nursing home, where he was residing. I should like to speak to him about his uncle, whom I had not seen for a number of years, just for old times’ sake.’

  ‘A nephew? Nephew? Can’t recall any nephew, dear lady. I shall just call for a little assistance, and maybe Carole in reception can have a look in the records.’ Thus saying, he picked up the internal telephone, of which he had no real need, considering the volume to which his own voice had risen, so that he could hear himself speak, and asked if the receptionist could have a quick scan of their records, in search of a nephew for Mr Reginald Pagnell (deceased).

  The answer came almost immediately, that they had no record of any living relatives for their late client, the last one being a cousin who had died some five years ago.

  Having received this unhelpful information, Lady Amanda tried another tack. ‘Would it be possible to know the terms of Mr Pagnell’s will?’ she asked, in as charming a voice as she could muster, given the decibels at which this request had to be made.

  ‘Hoping to be remembered, are we?’ shouted the old man, with a wheezy chuckle.

  ‘No, no, nothing like that, I assure you, Mr Williams. I’d just like to know, for the sake of personal interest,’ she cooed, like a pigeon using a megaphone.

  ‘Can’t just give out confidential information like that, dear lady. I’m sure you understand,’ Mr Williams countered.

  ‘But the will will be read soon, and then it will be published, and in the public domain,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Have to wait a bit then, won’t you,’ the old solicitor informed her, a wicked twinkle in his eye, at having thus thwarted her.

  Gathering her considerable resolve together, Lady Amanda made one last thrust. ‘Can you give me the details of the funeral, then – time, place?’ She almost, but not quite, begged him.

  At the mention of the word ‘funeral’, the old man drifted off in to a brown study, and began muttering: quite loudly as it happens, but because of his deafness, clearly audible to Lady Amanda.

  ‘Queer thing, that, about the funeral. Mr Pagnell left clear instructions that he was to be interred in the family plot, in the churchyard of St Michael-in-the-Fields. Sole beneficiary, after a number of small bequests, or rather his representative, has been pestering to have the old boy cremated. Don’t fancy that, myself. Want my skull and cross-bones all together, when the Last Trump sounds.’

  Now, looking up at his client once more, he continued, as if he had intended her to hear what he had been saying to himself all along, ‘Absolutely impossible in the light of my late client’s wishes. Cremation, my gouty old foot! He shall be interred where he requested to be interred.

  ‘That was his last wish, and it is my job to make sure that that is how things happen. St Michael-in-the-Fields, next Wednesday at ten-thirty, then afterwards, at the deceased’s old address, High Hedges, The Butts, Belchester. I think that is all the information I can give you, but it has been arranged that the will-reading take place after the wake. Perhaps you might find yourself there at the appropriate time, young lady. I shall certainly not object to your presence,’ young Mr Williams concluded, constructing on his crumpled old face what Lady Amanda correctly construed to be a conspiratorial smile.

  ‘Is there any information you can give me as to the identity of the sole beneficiary?’ she asked, hopefully.

  ‘Sorry, young lady, but you will just have to be patient, and all will be revealed.’

  She blushed with pleasure to have been addressed as ‘young lady’, not just once, but twice, and made her farewells suitably appreciatively, if a little on the fortissimo side.

  As she re-entered the Rolls, she mused on what she had learnt. Next Wednesday; and it was Friday today, so she and Hugo had five days to determine whether they were capable of discovering the identity of the young man who had visited the nursing home, with such deadly refreshment about his person.

  On arrival back at BelchesterTowers, she shared what little she had learnt with Hugo.

  ‘Well, that seems to be that then, old thing,’ he commented when she had made her little speech. ‘Nothing we can do now, but wait.’

  ‘Rot, Hugo! There’s plenty to be done.’

  ‘Well, I can’t see it.’

  ‘No, but, luckily, I can. And don’t you find it very suspicious that that “nephew” of Reggie’s – because that’s who this mysterious representative of his beneficiary is – has kept banging on about c
remating his “uncle”, when it was strictly against Reggie’s dying wish? I do, and it sounds like he’s trying to prevent the opportunity for an exhumation, should anyone suspect him of poisoning his “uncle”.

  ‘So, the first thing I’m going to do is phone the hospital and find out when Enid Tweedie is going to be discharged. Then I’m going to visit that ghastly nursing home again, and book her in for a week’s convalescence.’

  ‘I say, that’s a bit mean, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ retorted Lady Amanda. ‘She’ll be an undercover agent, for us.’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ said Hugo, nodding his head of thick, wavy white hair.

  ‘And anyway, I’ll be paying, so she can hardly complain, can she?’

  This was a rhetorical question, and was recognised as such by Hugo, so he just kept his mouth shut, and waited to hear what other plans she had made. ‘On my third visit to the nursing home,’ she commenced, spearing him with a gimlet-eyed glance, ‘I shall ask to see the rooms they use for short-term convalescent patients.

  ‘It said on their sign outside that they also offer convalescent and respite care, and I shall be perfectly within my rights, as I intend to send some business their way, much as I abhor the idea, but Tweedie’s a tough cookie. She has to be, as when she’s fit, and up and about, she comes in here once a week to ‘do the rough’, and she’s got a real horror of a mother living with her, too. She’ll cope. She’ll be glad of the break.

  ‘What I can’t ferret out on my visit, I can leave it to her to do, chatting to the staff, and drawing them out. She can pretend to have been old Reggie’s cleaner at some time, and improvise some reminiscences, to allay any fears her prey may have.’

  ‘Top hole, Manda!’ cheered Hugo, amazed at the tenacity and inventiveness of his old friend. ‘Then what?’

  ‘If we still haven’t got our bird, going to the funeral and the wake should give us more idea of the identity of this mystery beneficiary, and we just take it from there. I refuse to go back to the police again, until I have the murdering beggar bang to rights, and can have him charged for the dog he is. That’ll show that uppity, disrespectful inspector a thing or two!’