Stamford Manor, that stately pile of which much mention has been made of late, is a singularly unedifying edifice and, in the opinions of many, quite the most loathsome building ever to attain listed status. Designed by Bertram Russell-Jones in the latter half of the nineteenth Century it is a perfect example of late Victorian rich-set planning blight. If, by some miracle of bureaucratic oversight, Stamford Manor had somehow managed to escape becoming listed, none save the most committed and ardent conservationists could conceivably campaign for its preservation, for it is a blighted place and few who visit it come away with good impressions, if they come away at all. Even in its prime it was striking rather than beautiful, but now it sits in its little vale at the foot of a hill with a dark and heavy cloud hanging permanently over it. Even the postman refuses to pass the great ornate ironwork gates and its inhabitants have long since learned to accept their grocery deliveries being thrown over said gates in tied-up plastic bags. Jack Humphrey, proprietor and landlord of the Rose & Crown in nearby Wigglesby, has heard all the stories many times over, the children who slip into the grounds on a dare, never to return, the vanishing poachers, the weird behaviour of the inhabitants on their all-too-rare excursions into town, some accounts of which have already attained the status of legends, frequently scatological in nature and so deeply blasphemous that accounts of them would make an atheist shudder, but legends nonetheless, reiterated in cautious whispers over a pint or three of Old Dock Leaf or Dark Grunter on quiet nights when other forms of entertainment have either failed or been exhausted. If Ophelia had been a better journalist she might have noticed Wigglesby on the map and made the effort to go there and canvass the locals about the Manor (and those who live there) and thereby be aware of some of the possible consequences of blundering into that godforsaken place unannounced and unforewarned. Unfortunately, for everyone concerned, she is not and she did not, and so our sorry tale must continue.
And so it was that Ophelia found herself in the grounds of Stamford Manor at around four o’clock on an overcast Thursday afternoon. The journey had been long and arduous and involved more than a few favours that she would be quite happy to forget about and she was almost dead on her feet through tiredness but she was here now and that was the main thing. However, right now all such thoughts had been banished, for Ophelia was following another train of thought entirely.
She was standing beneath a large military-style plane with little wings and big engines. As an item of garden furniture it was large and ostentatious and not a little rusty. It had clearly seen better days and not been flown in some time. Ophelia found herself wondering if it still worked. Any enthusiast worth their salt could have told her that it was a Hawker Siddeley Harrier and that the rust and the thick stems of ivy creeping across the wings and into and through the engines were a clear indication of its inoperability, but these are but mere details and of little significance to the wider dream. Willard clearly didn’t take it out as often as he should, but no matter. That would change once she got a foot in the door and her feet under the table. A spot of polish and a little engine oil and soon they would be jaunting off to exciting places such as the millionaire resort of Morocco where he would take her on expensive shopping trips to Cartier and Tiffany in his Formula One car and sip champagne as they watched all the other Formula One drivers racing round and round in circles from the deck of his yacht moored in the most prestigious mooring spot in all of Morocco. Not that she cared one jot for motor sports, but when in Rome it paid to do as the natives do. Besides, even millionaires have to have hobbies.
Meanwhile, inside the house, a curious fellow with curly ginger hair and slightly bulgy staring eyes was leaping up and down in delight. His name is Roger and we shall very shortly be learning far more about him than would be permissible in polite conversation.
– They got him!
He slammed the phone down happily and skipped off to find his uncle.
– Yoo-hoo! They got him!
He found him in the study, scowling over some ancient bound volume of manuscripts or other and scratching the sore patch on his head listlessly.
– I do wish you would speak properly. You are not an East End barrow boy. Please enunciate.
– Go boil your head, you ugly relic.
– That’s better. Now, whom did they get?
– Shouldn’t that be “Whom is it what found himself got?”
– If pedantry were pennies you would be financially soluble right now, my boy. Now please get to the point before I lose my patience.
– Our friends in the blue pointy hats took care of that chap with the camera who snapped Vicky leaving Snookums in Mayfair with John the Baptist.
– Ah, jolly good. Another loose end tied up. Pass on my regards to those responsible, would you? Usual nonsense, hamper, bottle of bubbly, that sort of thing.
– I’ll put in a call to the caterers first thing in the morning.
– You couldn’t do it now?
Roger was visibly agitated, hopping around on one leg and scratching himself unpleasantly.
– Well, I would but my hernia is acting up something rotten, giving me the right gyp. I might have to go outside and avail myself of the frottage options against a tree or two outside.
– Very well, I’ll do it myself then. Off you trot, and be discrete about it, for heaven’s sake.
Roger grinned horribly.
– Oh, I will. I am the very poster boy of discretion, me.
And with that he skipped off humming tonelessly to himself.
At this very moment no more than two or three hundred yards away Ophelia was writhing around on the grass bleating in pain, the teeth of some ancient and rusty mechanical contraption clamped firmly around her left shin, already digging in and drawing blood. The nose cone of the Hawker Siddeley Harrier lurking above her head no longer seemed remotely interesting. She was going to have to have a stern word with Willard when she met him about leaving such dangerous devices lying around where they might hurt people.
TO BE CONTINUED…
