I
The Humble Stallion, located in a particularly shabby corner of Spitalfields, was never short of patrons. Its clientele consisted mostly of hard-working wage earners, but there was a not insignificant minority made up of former jailbirds, shysters, confidence tricksters, and the odd raving maniac. One evening, quite late, on the first floor of this noisy establishment sat three people.
Big Marge was known as Big Marge for obvious reasons. She was well over six feet tall and weighed, by her own admission, over fifteen stone. However, by disposition she was surprisingly timid. She had quite an agreeable face, and that often led admirers in the many narrow lanes of the area to hoot and whistle at her. This made her secretly happy but also caused her more anxiety. She had no money of her own, having grown up on the alms of the proprietor of a chimney sweeper business. She lived off odd jobs and slept in a bunk bed. Now that she had made the acquaintance of Miss Alice Diamond and her business partner Mr. McDonald, who had plans for her to get rich quickly, she was having a most pleasant day.
Miss Alice Diamond and Mr. McDonald were two-time jailbirds. Miss Alice Diamond had committed several jewellery store robberies but had been captured in Market Snodsbury, where she was on a rendezvous with her lover McDonald, who happened to be an innkeeper. Subsequently, the power of love had kindled a strong desire in both to be reunited. This resulted in a most ingenious jailbreak, and Alice Diamond managed a getaway in a Morris Cowley with McDonald. Love, however, also met its challenges, and once more they were recaptured under the strangest of circumstances and coincidences near Market Snodsbury. This had all happened one year ago, and the now supposedly reformed couple were out again, their love and their pleading having found the sympathetic ear of a liberal judge.
Big Marge felt admiration for the derring-do of this most romantic couple and understood that fortune eventually smiled on the brave. She remembered hearing that on the radio when she was very young. She had stood outside in the freezing cold, looking at the most ornate displays on decorated trees and the wondrously coloured boxes in a large department store, when the voice from the radio spoke to her. She now listened with the utmost attention to Miss Alice Diamond, who was holding forth on a grand plan.
‘Revenge is the greatest motivator. Revenge. Love too, Big Marge, but revenge – revenge is the sweetest sauce. You will learn that in time. You are young ‘un and a little slow. I understand that, but that is also what I like about you. McDonald, my man here, agrees. You see, there is this uppity group of snobs that operates in and around Market Snodsbury that’s been responsible for me and this poor lamb here being in jail twice. A real uppity group too. All of them, they live in this palace called Brinkley Court over in Worcestershire.’
‘Aye, they live there,’ chimed in McDonald.
‘Brinkley Court,’ blinked Big Marge.
‘Yes, my lass, listen now and listen good, it is a dreadful lot of people there. They thought I would not find out that they was responsible for my arrest. Not once but twice, eh? I swore revenge. I told the reporter too as they was draggin’ my poor McDonald back to jail. And I tell ya, once Alice Diamond decides something, she does it. The comeuppance, they deserve it.’
‘Aye, they do,’ added McDonald.
‘They do, don’t they?’ asked Big Marge.
‘Now listen, I got eyes and ears everywhere. There is a fat man who lives there with a fat lady. Lord Travers, he calls himself, and she calls herself Lady Travers. Bah! They got all these snooty kids all around. I think two of his own, a boy and a girl or somethin’. The mansion always seems to have these guests too. Celebrities and socialites and such. Now this Travers, he is some kind of collector of antiques, and I am told he has got more money than a bank. Imagine that. Collecting things and just keepin’ them. Not even rubies or diamonds. Old statues and paintings and such. And the Lord gave money to such fools. If I got a collection item, I would give it to a museum where it belongs. For a finder’s fee, of course. I mean, I am a professional. You see what I say?’
‘Aye, she is a professional, she is,’ said McDonald.
‘Okay,’ said Big Marge.
‘I got a plan. There is a maid there who has given notice because she got married and is moving. I got to know this because Sanders — he’s the new innkeeper now, took over after McDonald was arrested, good friend of his — is a friend of one of the gardeners there. They are looking for replacements. You got a nice face; a kind one I mean. Not beautiful! Hah! No! No, we can’t have beautiful. You got a kind face. The assistant gardener, Colt, will get you an interview. He owes Sanders a favour, and you will be posing as Sanders’ niece. Mind you, say nothing about the plan to that fool. He is one of them honest fools that will always stay poor.’
‘Aye, he is honest,’ declared McDonald.
‘They won’t ask questions?’ asked Big Marge.
‘These snoots take old employees at their word. The assistant gardener has been there for ages. You should get in there, make an impression. Flutter those eyelashes, show some tears. Say you need the job. Take the bus tomorrow. Hope you got some clothes on you better than what you be wearin’ now. There is some annual gala planned over in Market Snodsbury. You are to inform us of the exact date and times. We will be ready to make our move. Once we are done, you will be set for a fresh start. So will we. Ho, I got a surprise for them.’
‘Aye, she has,’ clarified McDonald.
Big Marge was already lost in her thoughts. Perhaps she was thinking of what Brinkley Court would look like. Alice Diamond rapped her knuckles, and she woke from her daze.
‘Sorry,’ said Big Marge.
‘You need to stay sharp, girlie; you are our eyes and ears on the inside.’
II
While this discussion was being carried out, in quite another part of London known as the Mayfair District, in a tiny but very posh apartment sat Sir Shash at his study table. He never called it a writing desk or reading desk or simply a desk. It was a study table. His mother always called it a study table. So, it was.
His diary lay open before him, more out of habit than urgency, for Sir Shash had never seen much sense in an early bedtime when there was a good book, a strong cup of tea, and a perfectly agreeable evening still ahead of him. Sir Roderick Glossop, that eminent ‘loony doctor’ as he was known to Sir Shash’s dearest friend, Bertie Wooster, had once informed him with great solemnity that a man of sound habits retired by ten. Sir Shash had thanked him politely and stayed up till one.
His platter of fish and chips, procured with some ceremony outside The Drones Club, sat half-finished on the dining table, having been abandoned somewhere between the second helping and a sudden and pressing urge to reorganise his bookshelf. Sir Shash employed no butler. Neither a valet nor a chauffeur. He did not own a car, on the grounds that London had quite enough traffic without his contribution to it. A maid named Agnes came in once each morning, though there was precious little for her to do, since Sir Shash kept the place tidier without help than most men managed with a full staff. She had remarked on it to him more than once, half in jest, and privately suspected that he kept her on for no better reason than the pleasure of a friendly face over the coffee pot. Agnes, it should be said, was the sort of face that turned heads the length of any London street — she might have stepped straight off the cover of a magazine — and yet Sir Shash appeared entirely and genuinely oblivious to it, a state of affairs Agnes found by turns baffling and, if she were honest, rather restful. She had a key. She had long since stopped asking why he was sometimes not there at all, and he had long since stopped explaining. He paid her generously and never said an unkind word, which she considered fair enough compensation for the mystery.
He came back and sat at his study table, glanced at the photograph of his family that lived there, and reached for Dr. Watson’s latest account of the exploits of the legendary detective Sherlock Holmes. He read a page or two before setting it aside, not quite able to settle to it, and picked up Rosie M Banks’s newest romance novel, A Girl to Remember, instead, setting it beside Dr. Watson’s book and studying the two covers with all the gravity of a man choosing between two excellent puddings.
He got up after a while and wandered over to the window, pulling the curtain partly aside to look out at the cobblestoned street below. A gentle rain was falling, and somewhere not too far off a barrel organ was playing something cheerfully out of tune.
The doorbell rang. He opened the door. It was Jeeves.
‘Good evening, sir, may I come in?’
‘Certainly, my dear fellow, please do.’
‘I thank you, sir. You will pardon the late intrusion. Mr. Wooster wanted me to hand over this invitation to you in person.’
Sir Shash opened the envelope. It was an invite from Lady Dahlia Travers, Bertie’s Aunt Dahlia. It was addressed to Bertie but had the following message:
‘Young Blot-on-the-landscape,
You are summarily invited the next weekend to Brinkley. There is a gala. Come early. Leave after the weekend. Only because we have to leave town. Bring the one girl beauty chorus. Bring the subcontinental aristocrat. Bring one or two of your other lunatic friends if you like. I cannot be bothered to write to every single one of the fools. Refusal is not an option.
Love,
Travers.’
Sir Shash grinned as he read it. He had been to Brinkley Court before, and it remained one of his favourite places in the world, not least for that magnificent library. It was a room, he had always suspected, designed by someone who understood precisely how a person ought to spend a rainy afternoon.
Jeeves tilted his head slightly. ‘If you will forgive me, sir, I believe I hear a kettle on the boil.’
He stepped into the kitchen and returned a moment later to report that the matter had been attended to.
Sir Shash scratched his head, faintly amused at his own forgetfulness. ‘I confess, Jeeves, I have not the faintest memory of putting a kettle on this evening.’
‘It happens to the best of us, sir.’
‘Does it happen to you, Jeeves?’
‘Rarely, sir.’
‘No surprise there.’
‘Thank you, sir. With your permission, I must now take my leave.’
‘Thank you, Jeeves.’
‘Not at all, sir.’
III
A tall and largish but very pleasant-looking Margaret was standing in the magnificent estate gardens of Brinkley Court, talking to young Colt the assistant gardener. It was bright and the air was cold and crisp.
Colt was older than Margaret but not by much. He was grinning awkwardly. He had repaid what he owed to the new proprietor of the nearby inn by putting in a strong reference for his niece. To him, this seemed like the best way to repay a debt — not with money but with a good deed. He looked at Margaret as she spoke. Margaret was as tall as he was.
‘Mr. Colt, how can I ever thank you?’ she said in a very soft voice.
‘Thank me? That is absolutely not necessary, Miss Margaret. Just happy to assist in any way I can. I was told that you needed the money. I know how that feels. You just make sure that you do not disappoint Mr. Seppings, the butler, in any way. He is the head of staff at Brinkley and expects our best every day.’
‘Oh, I most certainly won’t,’ said Margaret, almost exhilarated that everyone was calling her Margaret and not Big Marge, ‘I shall be most diligent, and you are absolutely right, I do need the money.’
‘If you do not mind my asking, Miss Margaret, don’t you have any family to help you out other than your uncle?’
‘Not really, and it is really kind of him to help. I had not seen him in many years till he visited me in London recently. I mostly grew up alone, helped partially by a man of business and partially by the Sisters of Grace.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, Miss, I really am. We can do little about our early circumstances. However, you do have a future here, Miss. The job, it is hard work but the pay is steady, and Lady Travers and Lord Travers are very kind employers. You will probably be sharing a room with someone, but you will have a most charming view of the gardens.’
‘Yes, Lucy showed me the room we shall be sharing. What a bit of luck for me! Thank you once more. How can I ever repay this?’
Colt almost blushed.
He observed that she had very beautiful blue eyes. He noticed the scent of primroses.
He replied, ‘God is kind. I am always here in the mornings and afternoons. If you need my assistance, just holler. I mean, please call out, Miss Margaret, but not too loudly. I will be happy to help.’
He grinned and walked away.
Big Marge looked all around her. The place was from a fairytale. The sheer size of the estate already left her awestruck.
She looked skywards and muttered, ‘This could be a castle, really. The symmetry, those rounded towers, very castle-like. The gardens, they are endless, such pretty flowers too… and Lucy mentioned there is a lake. Thank you, thank you. Even if it is only for a short time, I thank you.’
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