Too Many Crooks

Two Many Crooks

Gordon Andrews

First published by Barny Books

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any way or by any means, including electronic storage and retrieval, without prior permission of the publisher.

All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

EBOOK ISBN No: 978.1.906542.98.6

Publishers: Barny Books

www.barnybooks.co.uk

Also written by Gordon Andrews (all paperbacks):

978.1.906542.76.4 Devils In Innocence

978.1.906542.41.2 Fans and Feathers

978.1.780034.23.2 The Outlanders

Ebooks:

978.1.906542.89.4 Requiem of a Terrorist

978.1.906542.91.7 Lady of the Company

Cover illustration by Piers Tilbury

www.pierstilbury.com

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter 1

Sitting in Oscar’s opulent study, I stared across the desk top at the slanting April rain obscuring the view from the bay window, and shivered violently. Trying to keep warm had become a major objective since my return to my native land to inherit this place.

Within the space of two months, my life had not just been changed, but transformed from a high ranking Foreign Office diplomat to a wealthy, landowning gentleman!

The recall, whilst timely, came for a very different reason. An only cousin, hitherto recalled very vaguely, had died leaving me a goodly fortune and a considerable country estate in the West Country. His reason was not my virtues apparently, but that I was the sole surviving male relative.

My chief, of long standing and now seated opposite, ostensibly scanned my personal file. The number of stamps on the front cover hardly left room for my name; Grenville Hawkes. The fact he had risen to shake hands was in itself significant. So was the absence of the usual cordial staff greeting when passing through the offices. After all who wanted to be seen to be familiar with the Aristo in the tumbrel!

Hmm, he said, as if this was the first time he had examined the document, Fifty-five years old. Only a chicken! Early start to here I see. Twelve and a half stone of bone and muscle, doesn’t exactly say that here. I only translate the medical jargon. He guffawed. Someone here has written in the margin - looks like Lawrence-of-Arabia - a female hand I suspect!

I decided to intervene in this charade. Sir Richard Elves had appointed me initially and I was his equal in nominal rank, so I said, I don’t envy you the new Minister, Dick.

He pointed a finger at me to say, roguishly, Knew you’d know before we did, Grenville!

This was a myth which had been established in the Department long ago concerning the speed, and infallibility of my sources, which I encouraged. Some of it was true.

He continued, I know what you’re thinking. No K for services rendered for old Grenville! Wrong. Wrong. Wrong! As soon as a whisper reached me of her coming, your name was forwarded and approved. You’ll be a Knight of the Realm within three months.

My thanks were waved away. He returned to his serious mood. We both know what is entitled, eh?

There’s no future here for me after she comes. What’s more, people like me are never transferred, I replied.

Quite so, Grenville, old lad. Normally, you will be on extended leave until the end of September, full pay and so on, thereafter full pension and all the perks. You agree?

We both knew there was no option, so I just nodded, then asked, What about you, Dick?

He too, had fallen foul of the lady on more occasions than me. A broad grin spread as he responded, I’m going to be kicked upstairs!

My congratulations were sincere. He had been an excellent Head of Department, often defending his staff to his own detriment, and well deserving of the honour.

Don’t you dare! he said, with mock severity. The department had often been dubbed Elves and his fairies, and sticking his Lordship in front sounded no better. Seeing my intentions did not incline in that direction he queried, What will you do with yourself, Grenville? Oh, and by the way, no memoirs! Take that smirk off. Mine would be better than yours any day! Seriously, though?

My intentions, at the moment, are to clear up this mess my unknown cousin has left me, realise the assets, and find a place in the sun. England is too cold and wet. I’ve been offered a commercial post in Egypt, and I’m considering it.

The government ought to approve of that, old boy. But don’t be too hasty, though. He’s left a fine pile down there, a fine pile of money too, so let the dust settle first, eh?

Standing, he extended his hand, shaking mine a little longer than usual, to say, Thanks, Grenville. Been a pleasure no … an honour to have worked with you. Maud and I would like to accept an invitation when you get settled.

The knob of the door was in my hand when he called out, By the way, old boy, you’ll be meeting a Sir John Emery. Calls himself a financial adviser. Keep an eye out there, eh?

The farewells as I passed through the Office for the last time were cordial. News was I had been effectively neutered.

Back to the present day, I glanced again at the driving rain, feeling the cold enter my very bones. I decided to renew my attack on the elegant brass electric fire almost filling the chimney grate at my new digs. I had jousted with it unsuccessfully before now, fuelled with anger, I was in a mood to force it to work or dispatch it to the local auction house. Warily, having previously found the electric wiring to be similar to that in Noah’s Ark, I approached carrying a wooden ruler from the desk. The fire had two switches on one side, a horizontal polished brass reflector in which were suspended two bare wire elements which, in turn, ran into a support similar to that as the switchgear at the other end.

The ruler, judiciously wielded, poked the main switch and the two on the heater into the on position. Nothing. I rapped the switchgear end with ever increasing force. Nothing. Really angry by this time, I kicked it with considerable force. The thing hissed at me like a venomous snake, and a lightning storm of sparks erupted from the switches. Nothing.

Baffled, as well as angry, I drew back my foot, but retreated hastily behind the desk at the onset of another firework display followed by red glows appearing at the end of the elements.

Four red devils’ eyes regarded me balefully from behind the fender and threatened me with reprisals, or so I imagined. Feeling safe behind the desk, I swore using the considerable Arabic vocabulary from various bazaars, and to my delight the elements glowed brightly! There followed a series of heavy resonant clicks, and groans, as the brass expanded, and I could feel the heat through the knee-hole of the desk. Wonderful, but a short-lived triumph.

The elements became incandescent, broke into several pieces, fell into the grate, and blew the fuses. The housekeeper’s husband, or butler, or general factotum arrived to try to repair the damage, eyeing me reproachfully to tell me several times the fire was an antique. So were the staff and the house, I thought! This incident, small in the overall scheme of things had made up my mind. I would realise all the assets, and move back to Egypt to the warmth and the sun.

The reason I was sitting here was one of the pleasant things associated with the long dreary ostentatious funeral in a cathedral-like church. The order of service had been dictated by my deceased cousin, Oscar Lawson-Browne. Even the hearse was drawn by black horses with black plumes.

The solicitor, Miss Mary Lawes, was there to represent the firm of Fotheringhaye, Lawes, Hemmel and Lowe. I rose with alacrity as she entered, moved around the desk to shake hands, noting the lack of garish nail varnish and short fingernails. Only polish from normal length nails for this lady. She stood at shoulder height to me which made her about five feet seven, or eight, for I am tall. Her hair to me was remarkable, as I saw few European women, other than Embassy wives and relatives. Remarkable in that it was midnight black, with a high gloss. Irreverently, the advert for Cherry Blossom boot polish came to mind. Straight, cut rather short, it turned up beside each cheek to frame a retroussé nose and startling green and blue eyes which looked upon the world with a dispassionate curiosity. This severity of the superbly cut black suit did not conceal her figure which tended towards voluptuousness. I had watched her at the funeral, seeing her walk with an easy stride and guessed at a low handicap golfer like myself.

Her eyes had never left me as she took a seat in the armchair in front of the desk. The examination and assessment were mutual, although I was already aware she had made some inquiries. I certainly had. Second nature for me I suppose. Part of the job for her. Small talk dispensed with, a knock announced the arrival of Peter, the general factotum, burdened by a fire. One of the rectangular models with an integral calor-gas cylinder carried, on this occasion, by another male in overalls. The first evening of my arrival found me demanding the housekeeper, Peter’s wife Agnes Wrightson, to fire up the heating, only to be advised that the master, Mr Oscar, wouldn’t have it in the house. Spoilt the pictures and furniture he said.

I thought you might be feeling the cold, Miss, he said, addressing Mary Lowe, and you too, of course, sir, he added hastily, seeing my baleful stare.

Pity you couldn’t find that last night, I retorted, the memory of my exhaustive search for more blankets in strange surroundings rankled still, as did my bruised shins.

This ceremony of reading the will, I asked, is it essential?

Our firm’s client, Mr Lawson Brown stipulated that it should be done.

Then of course we must do it, I said sarcastically, then asked why is this - what’s his name - Sir John Emery to be present. The old retainers, Agnes and Peter, I can understand, but why him?

She started to name Oscar fully, but I intervened. Please I asked, I am Grenville, he’s Oscar, and if I may, you are Mary.

Fine. Well Oscar left the entire control of his not inconsiderable fortune to Sir John. His presence is vital to present the full financial picture.

Not to the old retainers I trust.

No. They will receive rewards for long service, then leave.

What is the monetary total, Mary?

As a high ranking Auditor from one of the most esteemed government departments, you should know better than to ask even if, as I suspect, you know already.

The cold watchfulness in her eyes belied the smile. This approach, revealing her inquiries, was to tempt me with a reaction, but she was not in my league at subterfuge. I responded, nonchalantly, We civil servants are not omnipotent you know, neither are we given to asking questions to which we know the answers.

If she was disappointed she concealed it but, assuming a cat watching a mouse attitude, she said, You are a strange auditor, Grenville, most would have asked who Oscar’s accountants were.

I pretended to look puzzled, acting being another essential in my career, and replied, You’d told me before I could ask, Mary, this Sir John fellow.

She was just a trifle unsure of herself, but decided not to pursue the matter. Whether she thought there were grounds for suspicion, or whether her actions were professional on behalf of her firm, was only a matter of minimal interest to me. I experienced a small tinge of regret our acquaintance must be so short. Ought she to be made aware of my plans? Innate caution prompted me not to tell until after the reading of the will.

She accepted the offer of refreshment, declining a sherry in favour of coffee. The Wrightsons might be tardy with heat appliances, but excelled with coffee. Meanwhile, outside the spring sun had won a victory over the massed rain clouds to shine brilliantly on the daffodils and other early flowers. The flagstones forming a large patio, in view from all ground-floor rooms, began to steam tendrils of a vapour rising into the air reminiscent of a giant barbecue. The Wrightsons had invited Mary to lunch without asking, not for the first time had they given me a foretaste of their tendency to control. Originally, my decision had been to stay at the local three-star hotel being unaware of the ceremonies to come. Upon my arrival, I had been informed by an irate manager of the removal of my cases to the Manor and a car awaited me. Leaving the Manor quickly would avoid a battle with them, I thought grimly.

My introspection was dismissed by Mary asking, I assume you’ve not seen your estate yet Grenville?

Only the drive and the front door, I answered.

Getting up, walking to the window with unconscious grace, she peered out, the sunlight striking the black hair appeared to endow it with purple skeins, to say, I think this sunny interval will last a while yet and, if we used the electric golf cart, I can at least show you the boundaries.

I accepted, perhaps my enthusiasm a little too evident, enough to bring a slight smile from her. My feelings were enhanced by the mention of the golf cart. I asked, as we walked through to the hall, Don’t tell me we have a golf course?

She chuckled, a low sexy sound and said, Oscar was definitely not athletically inclined. Oh, no. His activities excluded physical exertion … well … except in certain defined circumstances.

Which were?

I’m sorry, she replied, I ought not to have said that. Most unprofessional, making it plain she would not elaborate.

Anticipating my stay in England must involve some adverse weather, I had brought along one of my heaviest desert jackets, waterproof and fleece-lined. Yes, it does rain hard in the Middle-East, and night-time temperatures can drop well below freezing. Strange, the Arabians wear heavy clothes in the heat, whilst Europeans strip to the buff. I became aware of her delightful scent while standing close by the boot of her car as she exchanged the fashionable light coat for a tailored all weather model. The golf cart had been brought to the front steps by Peter. Thankfully, being only a two-seater, he was unable to impose himself as a driver, bringing a smile to Mary’s face when I suggested he was sure to follow us on a motorised lawn mower.

Your cousin was extremely demanding, she said, and could sulk for hours. He could become vicious too. One had to stand firm sometimes. I gathered personal experience had prompted this remark.

Waiting by her open car boot and looking in confirmed my guess about golf. Inside, was a full set of clubs, lying among an assortment of country gear, including green wellies. The golf bag and trolley were worn and had small patches of dried mud adhering to them, but the irons were gleaming. The sign of a good golfer.

Climbing into the buggy, we set off down the drive. Voltaire once said that a talkative companion was as good as a carriage. I soon found I had both, being content to lean back leaving Mary to give me a guided tour. One thing I did remember about England was the change in temperature when a cloud obscured the sun, especially in the spring, as happened now. Where I’d been for years, clouds were the exception. Reaching the end of the drive, she turned expertly between the pillars supporting wrought iron gates, saying, See the small lions holding shields sitting on top of each pillar? Oscar’s armorial crests are on the shield. I suppose you will want to change them?

I recall my father mentioning something about a grinning monkey with fingers raised in a certain fashion, I responded.

A chuckle and she replied, I don’t think the planning enforcement officer would accept such an alteration. Chantry Manor is a listed building you know.

Oh Lord! Will that stop me installing central heating? I asked with mock seriousness.

Shaking her head, smiling, she told me, I understand that Peter has already talked to Sir John who, in turn, has instructed a firm of consulting engineers to prepare an estimate.

Just for a second, I was spitting wild at their presumption, then mentally shrugged as it were. The next occupant would benefit, perhaps even the value of this stately pile would increase. Besides this, it provided me with an opportunity to find out the extent of her association with Sir John Emery.

Doubtless, he keeps you advised, this Sir John I mean?

Mary was silent for a moment, then informed me, Not usually. You see our firm has been involved, in one guise or another, since the Manor was built. A very strong attachment grew between Oscar and our principal partner, Mr Fotheringhaye, locally nicknamed Fanny, but not in his hearing!

I couldn’t control my merriment in which she joined heartily.

Carry on please, Mary, I gasped.

Did you have a nickname, Grenville? She asked surprisingly.

Not that I can recall, Mary.

I suppose not. You’re not the type to encourage familiarity.

I had no wish to pursue this line of conversation, so I asked, What exactly are your responsibilities?

If you mean mine, personally, none. My briefs in the practice are to deal with criminal cases. Mr Fotheringhaye deals with minor matters here, such as trespass, right sole way, fences and so on. Sir Johns lawyers in the city deal with anything major.

I see. So I’ll have to commit a criminal offence to see you again?

I do have a telephone number, Grenville.

She was not specific as to whether this was a private one, or an official one. I felt she was being deliberately ambiguous, the first faint sign of a possible alteration in our relationship. I consoled myself with the thought that the Middle East was but a plane trip away after all.

We sat looking up the tree-lined drive to the manor. The April sun had caught this southern elevation causing all the myriad of small window panes to glitter as if lights in all the rooms had been switched on in welcome. Thrusting, billowing masses of black cloud formed a backdrop, negating the welcome of the illuminated glass panes. I was glad to feel the wind on my back after those storm clouds had passed.

I was surprised by the steepness of the drive, Mary.

The Manor was built on the site of an ancient hill fort, she explained, which wouldn’t be allowed these days, although, in terms of antiquity and such structures generally, it was only a minor site. There are many such sites around here and we are fairly close to the main one of Stonehenge. You really must see that ancient monument, Grenville, part of our history.

I spent some while excavating in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt, I told her diffidently, then added hastily in case my comment would be misinterpreted, Who knows? I might get an opportunity to show you the site in Egypt. In exchange, you understand.

Isn’t that a double entendre?

"How so?

The invitation to Egypt bound up with me coming with you to Stonehenge.

I didn’t mean it like that.

Liar!

We both laughed which can be the foundation of a relationship when it is made in mutual enjoyment in one another’s company.

Quite an edifice, I remarked, and it certainly was. Built by some grandee, Lord or Earl, I suppose it?

A grocer, actually, she retorted, evoking more merriment. The main entrance was grandiose and imposing. Three flights of steps up to a pillared portico, lovely wrought-iron gates gleaming in black and gold, opening onto a small space with two mahogany main doors of imposing height and width. The door furniture, locks and hinges, shone like precious metal, and I began to suspect the size of the retinue of servants responsible.

She read my mind telling me, There is a staff of twenty. Some are local, but the security staff and others live in the East Wing. Generally, they look after themselves and their families.

Security?

Yes, definitely, Grenville. Sir John once let slip it was impossible to insure the contents despite state of the art electronic intruder devices. Your ancestors were squirrels of antiques, and one old master, a Turner I believe, is priceless. Time is pressing so let’s return to our tour.

I examined the central, square tower structure rising four floors above the main entrance, quite broad, surmounted by castellations. Just visible was the start of a triangular roof. Each corner appeared to be adorned by gargoyles, possibly drainage holes as no rainwater downpipes or gutters could be seen. A flag pole topped the structure.

Jocularly, I remarked to Mary, I’ll have a word with that Peter. I expect a flag to be flying when I am in residence.

Hardly had the words left my mouth, when I saw a figure on the roof doing so, and I joined Mary in laughter.

Running out from the centre tower and in line with it were two long wings, three floors high, erected on a basement. I knew about the basement from a snippet of information from Peter about the location of the fuses I had destroyed. The entire front elevation was divided between sets of vertical windows by ornamental half-columns mirroring those at the main entrance. These were different on the West Side, as was the stonework, giving the building a rather lopsided appearance.

Builders drunk? I queried, pointing at the West Side, all the money ran out perhaps?

Before she could reply we drew together as an errant cloud discharged cold-water upon us, fortunately not driven by the wind, or the open side to the cart would have been no protection. I found the contact pleasant.

She made no reply to my comments about the building, but asked Which way would you like to go? I suggest along the West Side, that would be best to give a view of the river.

We own a river? I was interested.

No one owns a river, silly, she replied in a professional tone, except the Environment Agency. You are the riparian owner, that is, the banks.

Salmon, or trout?

Not a hope, Grenville. Wide, rather shallow in parts, slow running, but with a good sandy bottom I understand. Coarse fishing only.

No income then …

Ascending the slope beside the West Wing she’d tackled a rise beyond the capabilities of the buggy, whose refusal to be maltreated ended by us running back, and somewhat tilted. Her search for an alternative route conveyed the impression this was the first time she had been here, which was rather interesting and surprising.

Once we’d gained the summit, trundling past the wing extremity I said, Stop a moment please, and dismounted to walk closer to the building.

Following an inspection I nodded, then turned to say, I thought so, Mary. That wing was built, or likely rebuilt in great haste. I wonder why?

I think I can help. You’re quite right. Parish records refer in graphic detail to an act of God in the form of a lightning bolt hitting the wing to visit retribution on the then owner for his evil abominations. Strangely, the report states it transpired on a clear summer evening with no storms.

She had turned to face me whilst talking, and said You look like an Auditor who has just found a massive error in the accounts, or a detective successfully detecting.

The first obviously, Mary, and I wonder what the abominations were, I said with wistful pretence, but it doesn’t really explain the haste.

The record date does, Grenville. The catastrophe was dated 1799, which I think was in the Napoleonic War period, suggesting good workmen and labourers would have been hard to get.

She wasn’t telling me the whole truth it. I walked further along the edge of the hill looking down on the river. The view was superb, except for the threatening black line someone had drawn on the horizon which rose even as I walked.

Turning about, I saw the extent of the hill upon which the manor had been erected, the area was not extensive, the whole not more