chef and the male members of the resuscitation team, lurched down the staircase while inside Lord Petrefact prayed and occasionally cursed.
‘If anyone drops this fucking thing they’ll never hear the end of it,’ he shouted rather illogically when they were halfway down. But they reached the bottom safely and lumbered into the drawing-room, to the astonishment of the Inspector who had finally got Yapp to admit that he was Professor of Demotic Historiography at the University of Kloone. That had been difficult enough to believe, but the apparition of the sedan chair and its contents unnerved the Inspector.
‘What in Heaven’s name is that?’ he demanded.
Lord Petrefact ignored the question. When it came to dealing with public servants he had no scruples. ‘Whatdo you think you are doing on private property? There is no need to answer that question. I intend to lodge a complaint with the Home Secretary and doubtless you will be required to answer then. In the meantime I give you five minutes to get out of here lock, stock and barrel. If you are still here you will be charged with illegal entry, trespass and damage to property. Croxley, put a telephone call through to the Solicitor General. I’ll take it in the study. Professor Yapp will accompany me.’
And without further ado he ordered the sedan chair to be carried out and across the hall to the study. Yapp followed in a daze of speculation. He had heard of the Influence of The Establishment and had in fact lectured on it, but never before had he seen it so flagrantly in action.
‘Well, I’ll be fucked,’ said the Inspector as the procession departed. ‘Who the hell landed us in this bloody mess?’
‘Mrs Billington-Wall,’ said Croxley, who had stayed behind to avoid having to bear the weight of the sedan chair and to witness the dismay of the Crime Squad. ‘If you want to get yourself out of trouble I would advise you to take her in for questioning.’
And having left this suggestion to cause that wretched woman the maximum inconvenience he followed Yapp to the study. Ten minutes later the police had driven off. Mrs Billington-Wall accompanied them, much against her will.
‘This is a cover-up,’ she shouted as she was bundledinto a police car. ‘I tell you that creature with the Intourist bag is behind it.’
The Inspector privately agreed. He hadn’t liked Yapp from the word go, but then again he hadn’t liked what the Solicitor General had said on the telephone and couldn’t imagine he’d enjoy the inevitable interview with the Chief Constable. Since the weight of authority had come down against Mrs Billington-Wall he meant to concoct some form of excuse from her statement.
Behind them Fawcett House resumed its evil tenor. The notice announcing that visitors would be welcome at two pounds a head was taken down. Yapp accepted a glass of brandy. Croxley accepted the immediate notice of the contract chef and dismissed the caterers. The medical team made up another bed in the private study on the ground floor and Lord Petrefact, having entered it, ordered the converted hearse to be ready to take him to London as soon as he had rested.
Finally, Walden Yapp drove off down the long drive in his rented car with a cheque for twenty thousand pounds in his pocket and a new sense of social grievance to spur his research. He couldn’t wait to get back to his modem and tell Doris all about his recent experiences.
9
The little town of Buscott (population 7,048) nestles in the Vale of Bushampton in the heart of England. Or so the few guide books that bother to mention it would have the tourist believe. In fact it crouches beside the sluggish river from which it derives the first part of its name and the original Petrefacts had drawn much of their wealth. The old mill still stands beside the Bus and the remains of its wheel rust in a sump of plastic bottles and beer cans. It was here that they had for centuries past ground corn and, if Yapp’s
‘If anyone drops this fucking thing they’ll never hear the end of it,’ he shouted rather illogically when they were halfway down. But they reached the bottom safely and lumbered into the drawing-room, to the astonishment of the Inspector who had finally got Yapp to admit that he was Professor of Demotic Historiography at the University of Kloone. That had been difficult enough to believe, but the apparition of the sedan chair and its contents unnerved the Inspector.
‘What in Heaven’s name is that?’ he demanded.
Lord Petrefact ignored the question. When it came to dealing with public servants he had no scruples. ‘Whatdo you think you are doing on private property? There is no need to answer that question. I intend to lodge a complaint with the Home Secretary and doubtless you will be required to answer then. In the meantime I give you five minutes to get out of here lock, stock and barrel. If you are still here you will be charged with illegal entry, trespass and damage to property. Croxley, put a telephone call through to the Solicitor General. I’ll take it in the study. Professor Yapp will accompany me.’
And without further ado he ordered the sedan chair to be carried out and across the hall to the study. Yapp followed in a daze of speculation. He had heard of the Influence of The Establishment and had in fact lectured on it, but never before had he seen it so flagrantly in action.
‘Well, I’ll be fucked,’ said the Inspector as the procession departed. ‘Who the hell landed us in this bloody mess?’
‘Mrs Billington-Wall,’ said Croxley, who had stayed behind to avoid having to bear the weight of the sedan chair and to witness the dismay of the Crime Squad. ‘If you want to get yourself out of trouble I would advise you to take her in for questioning.’
And having left this suggestion to cause that wretched woman the maximum inconvenience he followed Yapp to the study. Ten minutes later the police had driven off. Mrs Billington-Wall accompanied them, much against her will.
‘This is a cover-up,’ she shouted as she was bundledinto a police car. ‘I tell you that creature with the Intourist bag is behind it.’
The Inspector privately agreed. He hadn’t liked Yapp from the word go, but then again he hadn’t liked what the Solicitor General had said on the telephone and couldn’t imagine he’d enjoy the inevitable interview with the Chief Constable. Since the weight of authority had come down against Mrs Billington-Wall he meant to concoct some form of excuse from her statement.
Behind them Fawcett House resumed its evil tenor. The notice announcing that visitors would be welcome at two pounds a head was taken down. Yapp accepted a glass of brandy. Croxley accepted the immediate notice of the contract chef and dismissed the caterers. The medical team made up another bed in the private study on the ground floor and Lord Petrefact, having entered it, ordered the converted hearse to be ready to take him to London as soon as he had rested.
Finally, Walden Yapp drove off down the long drive in his rented car with a cheque for twenty thousand pounds in his pocket and a new sense of social grievance to spur his research. He couldn’t wait to get back to his modem and tell Doris all about his recent experiences.
9
The little town of Buscott (population 7,048) nestles in the Vale of Bushampton in the heart of England. Or so the few guide books that bother to mention it would have the tourist believe. In fact it crouches beside the sluggish river from which it derives the first part of its name and the original Petrefacts had drawn much of their wealth. The old mill still stands beside the Bus and the remains of its wheel rust in a sump of plastic bottles and beer cans. It was here that they had for centuries past ground corn and, if Yapp’s
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