Ancestral Vices by Tom Sharpe Page A

send for an ambulance and—’
    ‘You do that and you’ll live to regret it,’ shouted Croxley, now thoroughly alarmed. ‘You don’t think Lord Petrefact goes to ordinary hospitals. It’s the London Clinic or nothing.’
    ‘In that case I’m going up to have a word with him.’ The Inspector headed for the stairs and was just climbing them when Yapp decided this was a good opportunity to make himself scarce. He strode across the hall towards the doorway and might have made it if Mrs Billington-Wall hadn’t chosen that moment to reappear.
    ‘There he is,’ she screamed, ‘there’s the man you want.’ Yapp stopped in his tracks and glared at her butalready several constables had converged on him and he was hustled into what had once been the main drawing-room, closely followed by the Inspector.
    ‘I protest against this outrage,’ he began, following the routine he had learnt from so many political demonstrations. But the Inspector wasn’t to be fobbed off by protests.
    ‘Name?’ he said taking a seat at a table.
    Yapp considered the question and decided not to answer it. ‘I demand to see my legal representative,’ he said.
    The Inspector made a note of this lack of cooperation. ‘Address?’
    Yapp remained silent.
    ‘I know my rights,’ he said presently when the Inspector had finished writing down that the suspect refused to state his name and address and had adopted an aggressive manner from the start.
    ‘I’m sure you do. Been through the drill before, eh? And got a record.’
    ‘A record?’
    ‘Done a stretch or two.’
    ‘If you’re suggesting I’ve been to prison . . .’
    ‘Listen,’ said the Inspector. ‘I’m not suggesting anything except that you won’t answer questions and have acted in a suspicious manner. Now then . . .’
*
    While the interrogation began Croxley went upstairs with a new sense of satisfaction. Mrs Billington-Wall might be, and indeed was, a force for confusion, but the sight of Walden Yapp being dragged by three constables into the drawing-room had cheered him enormously. Croxley was still smarting under the affront to his confidentiality occasioned by not knowing what document he had seen signed. For all he knew it might be Lord Petrefact’s will, though a will would hardly require Yapp’s signature as well. No, it was some form of contract and as confidential private secretary he had a right to know. It was therefore with something like mild delight that he entered the bedroom.
    ‘The fat’s in the fire now,’ he announced, choosing his metaphor for maximum effect. Lord Petrefact’s diet made him averse to any mention of fat while he had an understandable phobia about fires.
    ‘Fire? Fat? Where?’ squawked the alarmed peer.
    ‘In the drawing-room,’ said Croxley. ‘The Billington woman has fingered Yapp.’
    ‘Fingered him?’ said Lord Petrefact, subsiding slightly.
    ‘Colloquially speaking. It’s police jargon for accusing someone. Anyway they’ve dragged him off and are presumably grilling the fellow.’
    ‘But I told you to get rid of the bastards,’ shouted Lord Petrefact, ‘I specifically ordered you to . . .’
    ‘It’s no use your carrying on like that. I told them to leave but they won’t listen to me. I got the impressionfrom the Inspector that he doesn’t believe you exist. He insists on seeing you.’
    ‘Then, by God, he will,’ yelled the old man and hoisted himself onto the edge of the bed. ‘Get me the medical team and bring me that fucking wheelchair . . .’ He stopped and considered the fate of Great-Uncle Erskine on the staircase and the demonstrably lethal qualities of the wheelchair. ‘On second thoughts, don’t. There’s a sedan chair in the Visitors’ wing. I’ll use that.’
    ‘If you insist,’ said Croxley doubtfully, but it was clear that Lord Petrefact did. His imprecations followed Croxley down the corridor.
    Twenty minutes later the sedan chair, borne on the shoulders of Croxley, two waiters, the