Strangeways to Oldham (10 page)

They planned to go to visit Enid Tweedie again after afternoon tea, and, as usual, retired after luncheon, for their usual post-prandial naps. Hugo was first up and about again, today, and as Lady Amanda descended the stairs from her bedroom, she heard Hugo in the drawing room, singing to himself:

‘Whistle while you work,

‘Hitler is a berk,

‘He is barmy,

‘So's his army,

‘Whistle while you work.'

He had a pleasant baritone voice, but seemed deeply embarrassed when she walked in on him. ‘Sorry about that,' he apologised. ‘Just a bit of nostalgia, after our little talk about the war, earlier, but I'm really not sure about the third line. I'm sure I haven't got the words quite right.'

‘You could hardly be expected to, after all this time. After all, the war is a long time ago, and you were only ta child yourself back then - and I wasn't even a twinkle in my father's eye,' Lady Amanda commented.

‘Sometimes those days seem more clear, and nearer, than yesterday. The older I get, the more I forget silly things, like what I had for lunch, or whether I've done something or not, and even where I'm going, and what I was going to fetch, when I get there.

‘Memories from my childhood and youth, however, are as bright and colourful as ever. As if I could just reach out my hand and touch them.'

‘It comes to us all, Hugo. It's a symptom of getting old, but the alternative's unthinkable.'

‘What's that, then?'

‘Dying young! Best to just trot along as we are, and get the most out of every day. Live every day as if it were your last, Hugo, because, one day, you'll be right!' she advised him, with unchallengeable common sense and logic. ‘
Carpe Diem
, Hugo!
Carpe Diem
! I say! Do you fancy another lesson on the old trike, before we have tea?'

‘I'm not seizing anything that hard!' Hugo stated, showing a little spirit, at last.

As Lady Amanda went into the hall to collect the light jacket she would wear that afternoon, for their visit to Enid Tweedie, she found Hugo at the foot of the stairs, tapping the barometer. Again!

‘Hugo!' she expostulated, ‘you're always tapping at that thing. What's the fascination?'

‘I've missed having my own, what with being in that place, and everything.'

‘But do you have to do it, what seems like every hour, on the hour?' she chided.

‘Is it really that often? I had no idea. Short-term memory and all that.'

‘If you carry on like that, you'll have to do what Enid did a couple of years ago.'

‘What's that?' asked Hugo, turning round in interest.

‘Go into hospital and have your ‘aneroids' out. That's what!' she told him, and had to stifle a snort of laughter.

Enid was still in her element, being waited on, and generally feeling like a minor member of the royal family. She had also been busy in her role as undercover agent, and had managed to get a surname out of one of the permanent members of staff who was familiar with many of the agency nurses locally.

Using the ruse that the son of a friend used to work here on a temporary basis, she made enquiries about a young man called Derek, having surmised that this was the name from which Del was derived.

Lady Amanda had already confided in her that they already had the name of one Derek Foster, but hinted that she (Lady Amanda) needed to be doubly sure, before she did anything. To have nabbed the wrong man would be unthinkably embarrassing. And on Enid's first enquiry, she had hit the jackpot.

Derek Foster, as he
was
called, had been employed there as an agency worker for only a week or so, a couple of years ago, but one particular nurse felt it her duty to recall not only past members of staff, but the names of anyone visiting the home. Recalling Derek was no problem for her, although she had not actually seen him when he had visited Reggie Pagnell.

‘Must have managed to slip in when she wasn't rota-ed for duty,' guessed Lady Amanda, sitting on Enid's bed and munching distractedly on her grapes. ‘Don't know how he'd found out, but he must have been very careful about when he came here.'

‘The staff has quite a high turnover here,' added Enid. ‘The nurse I spoke to said that there was no one here who had worked for the place for longer than eighteen months or so, except her, so he'd have no worries about being accosted by Matron, for she wouldn't know him from Adam.'

‘Except for the obvious one, that she's a right old dragon.' This was Lady Amanda again, now sucking noisily on a boiled sweet, purloined from a bowl on the bedside table. ‘As long as he was sure your nurse with the photographic memory was out of the way, he had a clear field in which to commit his dastardly deed,' she concluded, in a slightly muffled voice, as the sweet had decided to try to escape from her mouth, and nearly ended up on the bedspread. They could be like that, at times, boiled sweets!

‘Well, at least we have a confirmed name to work with now, Manda. That's something, isn't it?' Hugo said hopefully.

‘It's not the same as having an address, though, is it?' she retorted. ‘How the hell do we find him with just his name? He could live anywhere. There's nothing to say that he has to live in Belchester, is there? I knew we should have followed him after the reading of the will, and not stayed behind to try to pump that old bag of wind Williams.'

There was a silence that stretched out into the eternity of three minutes, then Lady Amanda spoke again. ‘I suppose there's no harm in me actually visiting the offices of Edwards's Nursing Services, posing as a client with a relative in need of care, and enquiring after a Derek Foster, whom a friend has recommended to me, as excellent?'

‘That's sounds like a good ruse, Manda. You might be able to get his address from there. Who is supposed to be the patient?' asked Hugo.

‘Why, you, of course, you silly sausage! Who else around here is as doddery as you are?' she asked, and received a furious scowl and a childish pout in reply.

‘Will you go in disguise, Lady Amanda?' asked Enid, memories of post-war spy films flooding her memory.

‘Of course not, you dolt! That sort of thing only goes undiscovered in fiction. If I put on a wig and lashings of make-up, anyone would spot at once that I was up to something dodgy. This isn't some caper film! This is real life, Enid. This chap is dangerous, and I don't want to be his next victim.'

‘Who says there's going to be a next victim?' asked Hugo, now looking decidedly nervous.

‘There always is, isn't there!' declared Lady Amanda. ‘The first murder is the hardest, then it just gets easier and easier to kill. It's like a compulsion. Who knows how many victims there will be if we don't stop him.'

‘I wish you'd stop talking about it, Manda. You're making me very anxious. He's already seen us once, at Reggie's funeral, and then we turned up at the reading of the will. If he sees us again, he's going to work out that we're on to him, somehow. I don't want him setting his mind to wiping us out, because we've worked out what he's done.'

‘Never fear, Hugo! We shall come out of this unscathed, and he will be headed behind bars.'

‘Thank you very much, Enid Blyton,' remarked Enid, gleefully getting her own back for what Lady Amanda had said to her just a short while ago, and Hugo offered his two-penn'orth as well.

‘Eat your heart out, Agatha Christie. Now, can we get back to Belchester Towers, where I feel rather safer than out and about visiting?' he asked, acidly.

Lady Amanda's retort was curt and to the point. ‘Sure can, you yellow-bellied jackal!'

That had been the nearest the two of them had come to a disagreement, and the journey home was unusually silent, both of them too embarrassed to refer to the incident. Although it had been very short, it was the sharpest exchange between them but, on entering Belchester Towers, Lady Amanda's
joie de vivre
was instantly restored, when she checked the time, and found that it was not quite five o'clock.

‘There's still time to make an appointment with that chap Edwards, before the office closes,' she declared, heading for the telephone directory, with hasty steps. ‘I might even be lucky enough to get an appointment tomorrow.'

Wasting not a second, she looked up the number in the Yellow Pages, and immediately dialled, without giving herself too much time to think of a story. It would be better if it was spontaneous. If she invented and rehearsed something beforehand, it would end up too complicated and convoluted, and she would forget what she had already said, and trip herself up, contradicting things she had already stated. It was much better off the cuff, then Hugo could remember for her, as he'd be listening to her end of the conversation.

Hugo eavesdropped out of necessity, as the call was answered at the other end. ‘Good afternoon,' began Lady Amanda. ‘I have a relative living with me who suffers mobility problems, and could do with someone visiting, maybe twice a day … Sorry, I can't discuss this on the telephone. He might overhear.'

He was overhearing perfectly well, thank you, and had been surprised to be referred to, firstly, as a relative, and secondly, as having mobility problems. He might be a bit slow getting around, but he was doing just fine, now he had Lady Amanda and Beauchamp to help him. He was just a bit slow: that was all.

‘I wonder if I could make an appointment to come to your offices to discuss my requirements.' Lady Amanda asked, puzzled as to why Hugo seemed to be scowling at her. ‘No, I don't need someone to come in as a matter of urgency; that's quite all right.' She paused, listening to the voice at the other end of the line. ‘Tomorrow morning at ten-thirty? Yes, that would be very convenient. My name is Lady Amanda Golightly, and I look forward to meeting you on the morrow, to discuss my little problem,' she concluded, putting down the telephone receiver. ‘Well, how was that?' she asked Hugo.

‘Speaking as your “little problem” he replied, somewhat tartly, ‘I don't think you should have given him your real name.'

‘Horse poo, Hugo! What harm can that possibly do?'

‘When you've made your enquiries about this chap Foster, it might get back to him that someone has been asking about him, and you've just given him your real name on a plate. Round here, it won't take much effort to find out that you live at Belchester Towers, with only an elderly manservant and your ‘little problem' for company. Then, where will we be?'

‘Don't be so melodramatic! I'm sure he's not going to come tearing round here with a gun or a machete, or even a lethal cocktail. We'll just tell the police all we've found out, hand over the “evidence” – the cocktail glass – and they'll lock him up.'

‘Sez who?' asked Hugo, sarcastically. ‘That inspector took no notice of you whatsoever before. Who says he's not going to do the same thing, next time you go to speak to him?'

‘He won't be able to deny the evidence, when I go to see him again. He'll be compelled to take action,' she replied, somewhat huffily, as the memory of how she had been dismissed out of hand by Inspector Moody, on her previous visit, stirred in the back of her mind.

‘Come along! The weather's fine and it's quite a while till cocktails. Let's go and get you on that trike again. It's about time you had another lesson,' she suggested, getting her revenge on Hugo, for his lack of faith in her powers of both detection, and persuasion.

Hugo fared a little better this time, managing both the art of pedalling, and that of using the brakes. He was tired after half an hour, but in that time, he had demonstrated that he was perfectly capable of controlling the tricycle, at very low speeds.

The next, obvious, stage, was to get him controlling the steering and brakes, with the motor running, as Lady Amanda suggested, as they walked slowly back indoors for their nightly cocktail.

‘Dear Lord, Manda, give me a break! I've only just got the hang of riding the thing under my own steam. Let me get used to that, before you put a rocket in my saddlebag.'

‘It's invigorating, to learn something new,' she retorted, contrarily.

‘That's as may be, but not quite so invigorating, if one dies in the attempt. Let me take it at my own pace. I will manage it, but slowly-slowly. I'm not going to let you bully me on this one. You've already had me scare myself half to death on that thing, and it's just going to have to be left up to me, when I'm ready.'

‘Fair enough, Hugo,' she agreed, rather meekly for her, but she was just pleased to have, sort of, got her own back on him with the trike lesson, for doubting her detection abilities. She knew she had acted pettily, and was feeling just a teensy bit ashamed of herself.

‘Cocktail time, Hugo! Then din-dins! My favourite part of the day,' she said, encouragingly, and led the way into the drawing room for their daily libation.

Chapter Eleven

‘Of course you can't come with me, Hugo. Don't be silly! There's no point in me explaining all about my ailing relative with mobility problems, if you're sitting beside me in his office, looking as right as ninepence, is there?'

‘I don't know why he has to know I'm the supposed sick relative,' Hugo countered, sulkily.

‘Because we might have to carry this charade to the point where someone visits you here, to assess your daily nursing requirements, that's why,' she explained, as if to a child.

‘Oh, I see,' he replied, then added. ‘I don't think I'd like someone poking and prying around my habits and abilities, let alone my body, to assess me for anything.'

‘It probably won't come to that, but we must be prepared to go to any lengths necessary, to catch this chap,' she assured him. ‘Just leave this one to me, and I'll do my level best to find out where he lives, from this Edwards person, this morning. If I can wheedle and smarm, and use a bit of charm, I might just come home with the goods, and we can go to visit Inspector Snooty, and give him one in the eye.'

‘Might I not come in the car?' asked Hugo wistfully. ‘If anything goes amiss, it might be good to have your co-conspirator around, for safety's sake?'

‘I shall have Beauchamp with me, waiting in the car,' she explained airily. ‘You'd better stay here out of the way, in case we need you to be the patient. If you're at all bored, you can write a narrative of our adventure so far – be a Watson to my Holmes. Dr Watson always wrote the stories, didn't he?'

‘Holmes and Watson weren't real people, Manda! You really must stop living in the land of fiction,' he replied, getting another one in, on behalf of poor old Enid, yesterday, with her Hollywood-inspired spy fantasies. ‘Anyway, I fancied us more as Tommy and Tuppence Beresford.'

‘That couple of wet fish? Oh, Hugo,
do
set your sights higher. They were the most ghastly couple of drips who ever disgraced crime fiction!' Lady Amanda made it abundantly clear that she was not a fan.

As the front door slammed, however, Hugo reconsidered the idea of writing a Watson-esque journal, and saw that it was good. If anything happened to them, at least there would be written evidence of what they had become involved in. He also rather fancied the idea of being Watson, faithfully recording the adventures he became caught up in with his friend, Holmes.

Taking himself off to the library, he hunted out paper and writing implements, and sat down at the desk, to await inspiration for his title. After a couple of minutes chewing the end of his pen, he gave a small cry of, ‘‘Aha!' and wrote
The Adventure of the Terminal Cocktail
, and underlined it. It might not be the best of titles, but it would do for now.

Taking up his fountain pen again, he began to write:
I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a sunny but not particularly warm day, when this matter raised its ugly head.

At its launch I was, myself, incarcerated in a nursing home, being cared for after my old war wound had flared up again. Each day being like any other, I whiled away my time solving crossword puzzles, and wandering up and down the veranda with the aid of my trusty walking cane, smoking my faithful old pipe.

On the day in question, I had just finished reading the morning paper, when a familiar old voice called out my name, and who should enter my room, but my faithful friend from childhood, Lady Amanda Golightly.

At this juncture, I had better introduce myself to the reader of my modest efforts at writing, and state that I am Hugo Cholmondley-Crichton-Crump, and have been acquainted with the Golightly family, almost since my birth. A long gap in this friendship had occurred, due to circumstances beyond the control of either party, and quite unexpectedly, I found myself re-united with the family's youngest member, Lady Amanda, still delightful, despite the passage of time.

I greeted her warmly, and rose from my prone position to shake her by the hand. Our previous relations had been warm, but formal.

Before I could utter a word of welcome, however, she raised a finger to her Cupid's bow lips, and bade me be silent, before informing me that, in a room, down the corridor, a ghastly crime had been committed. A man had been cruelly murdered.

At this point, he put down his pen, searched without success for blotting paper, and blew softly across his writing to dry the ink, before he concealed it somewhere where Lady Amanda would never find it. He'd always fancied himself a writer, but had never had the time to put pen to paper. Maybe he'd give it a try, now that he was retired, and had sufficient leisure time to do as he pleased, but he wouldn't say anything to Manda. She'd rag him terribly, and he'd die of embarrassment.

Meanwhile, Lady Amanda had a thoughtful journey to Edwards's Nursing Services, going over her cover story, so that she would be word-perfect when she got there. She had decided that, if asked what relation to her Hugo was, she'd claim him to be an older cousin, fallen upon hard times, and unable to live independently any more. She only hoped that nerves would not get the better of her and make her mind go blank – a not very ‘Lady Amanda-ish' thing to happen, but then this was a first, for her.

The offices of Edwards's Nursing Services were in Snuff Street, very handy for the Birdlings Serenade prison camp, Dr Andrew's surgery and the hospital. The building that housed them was a Georgian one, its front still in original state, only a discreet brass plaque by the door identifying this as a commercial property, and not a private dwelling house.

Mounting the three steps that led up to the front door, she stepped inside to find herself confronted with a reception area with huge desk, at which sat a very efficient-looking and forbidding secretary-cum-receptionist.

‘May I help you, madam?' this individual enquired, giving Lady Amanda a sharp look under her severely plucked brows.

‘I have an appointment to see Mr Edwards,' Lady Amanda replied, with a confidence she no longer felt. ‘It's about my cousin.' She knew she was rattled, because this was unnecessary information, and proved that she was heading towards a tendency to babble. It was an outright lie, Hugo being a relative, she decided. Just as she abhorred bad manners, thus did she feel about telling lies, too.

‘Name, please?' enquired the efficient female, still giving her the once-over.

‘Lady Amanda Golightly,' came the reply, and suddenly the other woman thawed, and positively purred a welcome.

So, her name still carried some weight around here. Her title was doing its job again, as it had on numerous other occasions. Lady Amanda's nerves fled whence they had come, and she began to feel her normal confident self again.

‘I'll just buzz through to Mr Edwards and let him know you've arrived,' the receptionist informed her, pressing a button on an intercom service, and announcing to Mr Edwards the arrival of his client.

A voice squawked, ‘Send her in, please,' its normal tones distorted by the intercom to an electronic, machine-like voice.

Malcolm Edwards's office proved to be large and luxuriously appointed. There must be a good whack to be made out of providing nursing care, Lady Amanda thought, as she lowered herself into a large comfortable armchair, across the desk from the proprietor.

‘Good morning, your ladyship. How may I be of service to you?' asked Mr Edwards, and Lady Amanda immediately identified a slimy tone in his voice, indicating that he was well-versed in creeping and crawling around prospective clients, to hook them into his bank balance.

‘Good morning, Mr Edwards,' she replied, then waited for him to make the next move.

‘Do call me Malcolm,' he requested, and then continued, ‘I believe you have a poorly relative who may be in need of the services which my humble agency is more than happy to provide,' he stated.

Yes, he was definitely an experienced crawler and shoe-licker. No need to get any coarser about the matter! ‘It's my cousin,' she stated. ‘He's got to an age where he's not very mobile and, although I have taken him under my wing and into my own home, I find that I am rather averse to carrying out some of the tasks with which he needs help.'

‘Which are?' Golly, he was going straight for the jugular. She'd have to keep her wits about her, if she didn't want to end up employing a nurse, and not getting the opportunity to ask about Derek Foster.

‘Before we go into the details, I want to state categorically that my cousin, the help needed being of the intimate sort, will only consider the services of a male nurse.'

‘That's perfectly understandable, my lady.' He was in a bit of a bate himself, considering the way he attempted various ways of addressing her, evidently hoping to be directed to the correct form.

‘A friend of mine has recommended a young man in your employ, whom they described as efficient, courteous and well-mannered, and I wondered if I might be able to avail myself of his services.' This was it! Make or break! She'd only get one shot at it here.

‘And who might that be?' asked Mr Edwards, leaning confidentially over the desk towards her.

‘I believe his name is Derek Foster,' she declared, her cards now on the table.

Mr Edwards leaned back in his chair, and adopted a rueful expression. ‘I'm so sorry, Lady Golightly, but Mr Foster has just left our employ, and I am, therefore, no longer able to offer his services to you.'

Oh, goat berries! Piggy poo! thought Lady Amanda, who had just had her guns well and truly spiked. What now? she wondered. She'd have to try thinking outside the box. ‘I really feel very strongly, after such a glowing recommendation from my friend, that I'd like to contact Mr Foster at home, to see if he is willing to consider coming to care for my cousin. Or perhaps he's gone to another agency?' Let's see how he liked them potatoes.

He didn't! ‘I have been led to believe that Mr Foster has come into a large sum of money, and has taken advantage of this, by retiring from work altogether, and I'm afraid I cannot give out the private address of any employee, whether present or past. I do apologise for not being able to help you, but my hands are tied by the Data Protection Act. However, given the large number of nurses on my register, I'm sure we can satisfy your needs, or those of your cousin, with another male nurse. Just tell me what sort of care he is likely to need, and I'm sure I can recommend another of our staff.'

Cow poo! He had her there, and he knew it. She could tell by his face that he'd seen through her ruse, and was waiting, a slightly amused expression on his face, to see what she would do next.

‘In the event of Mr Foster not being available, I feel I shall have to discuss the situation with my cousin, in light of this new information. I shall not, therefore, be able to make any decision on his behalf today. I shall go home and discuss the matter with him, and make a further appointment to speak to you, when he has made up his mind.'

She left the building with a sigh of exasperation. What a waste of time that had turned out to be. Not only would he not tell her where the rascal lived, but it would seem that he didn't work for anyone now. How had he come into money, though? she wondered. He had been left nothing in Reggie's will.

Surely he wasn't going around bumping off old people willy-nilly, after having persuaded them to change their wills in his favour. If this was so, then it hadn't happened with Reggie. Maybe Reggie had had lucid moments when he realised Foster was trying to trick him into leaving him all his money, and Foster had had to get rid of him, before he blew the gaff on his little scam – or huge scam, for all she knew. What next? she considered. She'd have to have a little think in the Rolls, on the way home.

When she returned to Belchester Towers, Hugo was still busy scribbling away in the library, enjoying himself tremendously. ‘What are you up to, old bean?' she asked him, throwing her considerable bulk into a sturdy (thank goodness!) sofa.

‘Writing up our adventure so far,' replied Hugo, looking up from his labours.

‘I was only joking when I suggested that, you know,' she explained.

‘Maybe you were, but it's jolly good fun. Ought to make a cracking yarn, once it's finished, provided, that is, that it ever does get finished, and it has a happy ending. I've really enjoyed myself while you've been gone. What about you? Any joy?'

‘None whatsoever,' she told him. ‘It would appear that our Mr Foster has had a large inheritance, and is no longer in paid employment. That Edwards chappie sussed out that I was fishing, and he played me like an expert. Zilch! Nowt! Nada! Although I did think on the way home, that we might just check Directory Enquiries. He must have a telephone and we've got his name. There is just a chance that they'll be able to find his telephone number for us if he lives in this area.'

‘Good idea, old stick! Shall we do it now?' Hugo was getting just a little bit excited, at the thought of actually finding out where their prey's den was, so that they could beard him in it.

Lady Amanda dialled the required digits, gave the voice on the other end of the phone Derek Foster's name, then said that she didn't know his address, but it was definitely in the same telephone area as was her number.

After a short pause, there was a distant squawk from the other end of the line, and Lady Amanda's face fell so fast, it almost made a whooshing noise as it hurtled downwards. ‘Thank you so much,' she intoned, in a disgusted voice, and ended the call.

‘Any luck?' asked Hugo, already knowing the answer, before she told him.

‘Lucked out again! He's ex-directory,' she said, with a sigh.

‘Well, then we did learn something,' Hugo pointed out.

‘What?' she asked. ‘How? We know nothing more than we did before.'

‘Yes we do, Manda. If she was looking for him, and discovered he was ex-directory, then that means he definitely lives in this area, you silly sausage.'