T A Williams - Secrets at Toplingham Manor

‘Good afternoon, sir. And what can I get you?’

Duggie had a moment of inspiration.

‘I’ll have what he’s drinking.’ He pointed at the Frenchman and the barman’s face dropped.

‘Very good, sir.’

He didn’t look too happy. Duggie realised why when the glass was placed in front of him. It was full to the brim and quite transparent. His suspicions were confirmed as he raised the glass to his lips. Well, at least he could cross out alcoholism as a reason for absence from work.

‘Henri?’ He slid onto a stool and opened the conversation. The other man raised his head from his water and nodded. Duggie introduced himself.

‘I am Douglas Scott and I’m the new manager… Chief Executive of Toplingham Country Club.’ The barman seemed far more interested than Henri, who only just glanced up briefly, before once more turning his eyes downwards. ‘This is my first day and I have been trying to meet all the staff.’

‘That little tittle-tattle, Patrick. He told you I was here?’ There was undisguised annoyance in his voice. The accent was part Inspector Clouseau, part Eastenders, but the pose was pure Bogart, albeit without the stubbly chin, straight out of The African Queen . How did he manage it on a glass of water?

‘Never mind how I found you. I am only pleased that I have.’ Duggie warmed to the task ahead of him. ‘I have heard that you are one of the best butlers in the country. And yet, I find you not on duty. Please can you explain this to me?’ In fact he had heard nothing about Henri at all, but in his experience, a bit of buttering up was always appreciated. This time he got more reaction and, for the first time, a direct look into his eyes.

‘What is there to be a butler for or to? My master popped his clogs two months ago. Since then, I have been fiddling my fingers and playing with myself.’ Duggie restrained himself and managed to keep a straight face, whilst admiring the Frenchman’s courageous attempts at mastering the vernacular.

‘But your contract of employment?’ He asked gently. The reaction was an emotional outburst.

‘I was employed fourteen years ago by Mr Eustace to be his personal butler. I performed my duties to the very best of my abilities, even when he lost his marbles and went gaga. And you are wrong in what you say. I was not one of the best butlers. I was without question the very, very best in all this country, maybe even in France too! The bee’s knees.’

Duggie noted the modest, self-effacing manner of the man, but did not hold that against him. He had always been a firm believer that if you had a trumpet, you should blow it. For a moment his mind flitted back to Tina Pound, but he pressed on with the matter in hand. He would be seeing her again later on.

‘Well, Henri,’ he clapped him round the shoulders, ‘I have good news for you. Your new master is now in residence. Professor Roger Dalby, much-loved nephew of Eustace McKinnon, is the new owner. He is at the manor now, awaiting your ministrations.’

The Frenchman’s back stiffened as if the ‘Marseillaise’ had suddenly struck up.

‘ Ah bon, enfin . I shall resume my duties. I shall get my finger out and get it stuck in.’

Very close, thought Duggie with the slightest hint of a grin, but a brave try. Henri swigged the last of his water and leapt off the stool. ‘ On y va ?’

‘Oh yes, definitely.’ Duggie decided not to reply in French, principally because he could not speak a word of the language.

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