The Duchess was alight, her eyes sparkling like the sunlight in the cascading waters of the Membury fountains. She had been looking forward to and planning for this occasion since the day the MOT had restored to her possession a large part of the land they had requisitioned, including those south facing slopes with their views across the Vale of Pewsey to the Berkshire Downs. Here once more the Camino Real – the strawberry cultivated by her late husband for Queen Mary – was thriving. Today she was celebrating the brave and resourceful band of adventurers who had brought about its redemption.
Membury Hall had been built in the late Jacobean period after the
original medieval hall had been destroyed by fire. The orangery, west wing and
baroque chapel were added by the late Duke’s grandfather during young
Victoria’s reign. The Bath stone facade, foam grey bleached white by the sun in
places, was dazzling on a day like today. All the main living rooms were south
facing. The library, the drawing rooms, billiard room and dining room, all had
French windows giving out on to the extensive flagstone terrace with its stone
balustrade and broad steps leading down to the sweeping lawns and beyond them
the lake and meadows laid out in his prime by Lancelot “Capability” Brown.
The terrace was a sun trap. The Duchess had had erected a vast
canvas awning to protect her guests as they sat at the vast and generously
loaded tea-table.
Birch was in attendance with funereal serenity aided and
abetted by Mimms, fluffy and pink as ever. She was an honorary member of the
Membury staff for the day and truthfully she was far happier mucking in than
having to sit and make polite conversation with people she quite wrongly thought
were her betters.
Strensham was seated regal and sphinx like at one end of the
table opposite the Duchess. Ranged along one side were Dunstable Downes,
Bagpuize and Matravers opposite the veterans, Toddington and Clackett with the
suave and debonair Jimmy Frankley.
Slipper had made a brief appearance earlier at the fringes of
the party when DD observed that both Gordano and Birch appeared to have joined
the order of the devotees of St Patrick, no doubt on the recommendation of brothers
Toddington and Clackett.
So Slipper had established a foothold on the Membury
estate for his illicit trading activities. DD had to smile at the boy’s
enterprise as he watched him disappearing with a large hamper, no doubt rammed
with Membury produce.
Frankley was looking vexed as he brought everyone up to speed
with the fallout from that fateful night.
Toddington “.... and who was that fella anyway. The one with
the camera and the gabardine mac?”
“Marsh Gibbon d’you mean? You know, the crime reporter from
the Chronicle. He and his sidekick,” Frankley explained. “After that directive
from on high I could see this was going to be one of those deuced ticklish cases
where we would be squeezed by the top brass. I thought it would help if there
were independent reliable witnesses. Gibbon owed me a favour or two so I tipped
him off when I was back at the station that afternoon.”
“I never saw anything in the press!” Clackett complained,
disappointed. “I’d been hoping we might get a mention.”
“Of course he knew he’d never be allowed to publish. The
ministry slapped a gagging order on him straightaway. But the pictures and the
copy have been secured and can always “go missing” or find a way to get out,
and they know it.” The inspector raised an eyebrow and widened his eyes
suggestively.
He went on. “It’s not clear how much the minister did or
didn’t know. But if it had got out it would have been an embarrassment for the
government and it had all happened on his watch. So that was his political
career down the swanny. Last seen making paper aeroplanes from his order paper
on the backbenches.
Baldock and one or two colleagues were found to have been
receiving payments from the Parks. That’s how they got the contract for the
road network. But there was no real evidence that they were involved in the
robberies. Though it seems unlikely they didn’t have at least an inkling as to
what was going on. They were convicted of malfeasance in public office and
right now are probably sewing mail bags in the Scrubs.”
“They’ll feel at home there,” quipped DD. “In fact that’s
probably an improvement on their offices in Whitehall.” The boys giggled.
“I don’t know what happened to any of the DICS. I’m sure they
were aware of the hijackings. After all it was all part of the fraud aimed at
convincing their bosses to fund research into the Camino. I dare say they had
their noses in the trough.
My contacts in the intelligence fraternity – some of my old
service chums –say the affair prompted
something of a purge. Those people always tread a fine line between the “not
legal” and the downright criminal but this lot had committed the unforgiveable
sin – drawing attention to themselves. Probably been posted to some far flung
outpost of the empire filing weather reports.”
“Foggy was thrilled with all the papers you retrieved from the
bunker,” DD took up the story. “He says it seems Canes’ people ran into the
same problem as their predecessors. They could send individuals through the
system and even determine their exit point. But they singularly failed to
develop a protocol for large numbers of people or voluminous objects. He and
his pals are all a-buzz with it and rising to the challenge of making it work.”
Gordano had pulled out all the stops. Though to the boys
delight there was a definite Mimms influence on the board.
There was a choice of tea - rose congoua black from Guangdong,
China, or a blend of oolong bao zhong and darjeeling from the foothills of the Himalayas
- or homemade lemonade.
There was ham with grain mustard mayonnaise on brioche; cheddar
cheese with chutney on tomato bread; cucumber with cream cheese, dill and
chives on granary; breast of chicken with tarragon creamed mayonnaise; Scottish
smoked salmon with lemon butter on sourdough – a Strensham favourite ; egg
mayonnaise with chopped shallots and watercress on brioche roll and peanut
butter and jam or just plain peanut butter with butter and sea salt on white
doorstops. There were freshly baked raisin and plain scones with Cornish
clotted cream and of course fresh strawberry preserve and an assortment of
pastries and cakes.
But the pièce de la résistance which Gordano brought out
himself to a fanfare of applause from the assembled multitude as it rose to
its feet was a torta alle fragole della mamma – his grandmother’s own
strawberry and fresh cream cake recipe – made with, of course, the Duchess’s
very own home grown Camino Real strawberries.
As everyone tucked in Frankley resumed his narrative, obsessing
crossly about the ones that had managed to elude justice. “The Parks virtually got
away with it. The new road network was too far advanced to begin unpicking
their contract or finding a replacement. Besides if they had it would have been
embarrassing for the government. They would have had to come up with an
explanation for the Public Accounts Committee of why it was cancelled,” he
puffed. “But the Parks were made to pay in other ways. They gave up several of
their generals and troops who went down for the hijackings. We also identified
a number of their dens, close to the hubs on the map, and recovered a lot of
stolen property. For the rest they were forced to make financial
reparations with penalties so their empire has been considerably hobbled.”
Jimmy Frankley, irritated by his nagging sense of injustice,
carried on as the party noshed away paying him scant attention. “There’s still
no sign of Canes. We’ve been keeping an eye on all the usual escape routes but
it if he went down the Camino Real Foggy says he could be anywhere in the world
right now. Sunning himself on a beach in Acapulco or some such tropical paradise no doubt.” He
huffed. No one was listening. They were engrossed and gorging.
DD looked up at him and with a mouthful of torta grinned with
delight as he said.
“Frankley, my dear, I don’t give a d**n!”
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