receptacle for more than Fortnum and Mason’s best . . .’
‘Dear God,’ shouted Lord Petrefact. ‘What do you mean I’m “into pigs”?’
‘That’s just the beginning,’ said Croxley, preferring to keep off the topic. ‘She’s also told them that ProfessorYapp tried to murder you and the doctor’s evidence that there were several detonations hasn’t exactly helped.’
Lord Petrefact nudged himself up the bed. ‘Croxley,’ he said in tones of such implicit menace that Yapp shuddered, ‘either you will go downstairs and explain to those interfering lunatics of the Crime Squad that this is my property and that as far as I am concerned there has been no crime committed on it and that Professor Yapp was merely taking a bath or . . .’ There was no need for him to continue. Croxley had already left.
Lord Petrefact turned back to his guest. ‘You will start at Buscott. It’s the original family mill, you know, built in 1784 and still working to the best of my knowledge. Ghastly place. I did my apprenticeship there. Anyway it will give you a fairly good idea of the conditions under which the family made its early fortune. My youngest sister, Emmelia, runs the place now. Makes ethnic costumes, whatever they are, or something of the sort. You’ll find her at the New House, Buscott. Can’t miss it. And the earliest records are in the local museum. You shouldn’t have any trouble and if you do refer them to me.’
‘A letter of introduction might help,’ said Yapp.
Lord Petrefact rather doubted it but he was prepared to compromise. ‘I’ll have Croxley make out a cheque for you just as soon as he’s got rid of these confounded policemen. And now if you don’t mind. The events of this morning have rather taken their toll of me.’ And with a last reminder that Yapp was to start his researchat Buscott, Lord Petrefact dismissed him and lay back wearily in bed with the comforting thought that this foul man was going to make mincemeat of Emmelia and all the other Petrefacts who littered the landscape round Buscott.
*
But to Walden Yapp as he threaded his way down the corridor and onto the landing there was no hint of these hidden motives. He was still too dazed by the sudden switch from misfortune to the extraordinary good fortune of being offered the opportunity to expose the social evils which had led the Petrefacts to fortune and the building of this vile house to concentrate on remote problems. Or even immediate ones. His consistently theoretical mind was so preoccupied with the statistical evidence of working-class suffering he would be able to extract from the Petrefact archives that he had reached the bottom of the great staircase before he was fully conscious that there were an inordinate number of policemen milling about. He stopped and stared suspiciously. Yapp disliked policemen. It was one of the tenets of his social philosophy that they were the bodyguards of property owners and in his more high-flown lectures he had referred to them as the Praetorian Guard of Private Enterprise.
In the present circumstances their role seemed quite the reverse. Croxley was arguing with an inspector whose attention was held by the bloodstain on the floor.
‘I keep telling you the whole thing was an accident,’ he said, ‘there is absolutely no purpose in your being here.’
‘That’s not what Mrs Billington-Wall says. She says—’
‘I know what she says, and if you want my opinion the woman is mad. Lord Petrefact has instructed me . . .’
‘I’d like to see this Lord Petrefact myself before I form any opinion,’ said the Inspector dourly.
‘Quite so,’ said Croxley. ‘On the other hand he doesn’t want to see you, and his medical advisers have given orders that he isn’t to be disturbed. He’s not in a fit condition.’
‘In that case he ought to be in hospital,’ said the Inspector. ‘You can’t have it both ways. If he’s too ill to see me he’s too sick to stay here. I’ll
‘Dear God,’ shouted Lord Petrefact. ‘What do you mean I’m “into pigs”?’
‘That’s just the beginning,’ said Croxley, preferring to keep off the topic. ‘She’s also told them that ProfessorYapp tried to murder you and the doctor’s evidence that there were several detonations hasn’t exactly helped.’
Lord Petrefact nudged himself up the bed. ‘Croxley,’ he said in tones of such implicit menace that Yapp shuddered, ‘either you will go downstairs and explain to those interfering lunatics of the Crime Squad that this is my property and that as far as I am concerned there has been no crime committed on it and that Professor Yapp was merely taking a bath or . . .’ There was no need for him to continue. Croxley had already left.
Lord Petrefact turned back to his guest. ‘You will start at Buscott. It’s the original family mill, you know, built in 1784 and still working to the best of my knowledge. Ghastly place. I did my apprenticeship there. Anyway it will give you a fairly good idea of the conditions under which the family made its early fortune. My youngest sister, Emmelia, runs the place now. Makes ethnic costumes, whatever they are, or something of the sort. You’ll find her at the New House, Buscott. Can’t miss it. And the earliest records are in the local museum. You shouldn’t have any trouble and if you do refer them to me.’
‘A letter of introduction might help,’ said Yapp.
Lord Petrefact rather doubted it but he was prepared to compromise. ‘I’ll have Croxley make out a cheque for you just as soon as he’s got rid of these confounded policemen. And now if you don’t mind. The events of this morning have rather taken their toll of me.’ And with a last reminder that Yapp was to start his researchat Buscott, Lord Petrefact dismissed him and lay back wearily in bed with the comforting thought that this foul man was going to make mincemeat of Emmelia and all the other Petrefacts who littered the landscape round Buscott.
*
But to Walden Yapp as he threaded his way down the corridor and onto the landing there was no hint of these hidden motives. He was still too dazed by the sudden switch from misfortune to the extraordinary good fortune of being offered the opportunity to expose the social evils which had led the Petrefacts to fortune and the building of this vile house to concentrate on remote problems. Or even immediate ones. His consistently theoretical mind was so preoccupied with the statistical evidence of working-class suffering he would be able to extract from the Petrefact archives that he had reached the bottom of the great staircase before he was fully conscious that there were an inordinate number of policemen milling about. He stopped and stared suspiciously. Yapp disliked policemen. It was one of the tenets of his social philosophy that they were the bodyguards of property owners and in his more high-flown lectures he had referred to them as the Praetorian Guard of Private Enterprise.
In the present circumstances their role seemed quite the reverse. Croxley was arguing with an inspector whose attention was held by the bloodstain on the floor.
‘I keep telling you the whole thing was an accident,’ he said, ‘there is absolutely no purpose in your being here.’
‘That’s not what Mrs Billington-Wall says. She says—’
‘I know what she says, and if you want my opinion the woman is mad. Lord Petrefact has instructed me . . .’
‘I’d like to see this Lord Petrefact myself before I form any opinion,’ said the Inspector dourly.
‘Quite so,’ said Croxley. ‘On the other hand he doesn’t want to see you, and his medical advisers have given orders that he isn’t to be disturbed. He’s not in a fit condition.’
‘In that case he ought to be in hospital,’ said the Inspector. ‘You can’t have it both ways. If he’s too ill to see me he’s too sick to stay here. I’ll
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