Outside Blott was waiting in the car.
“Blott,” said Lady Maud climbing into the back seat, “what do you know about telephone tapping?”
Blott smiled and started the car. “Easy,” he said, “all you need is some wire and a pair of headphones.”
“In that case stop at the first radio shop you come to and buy the necessary equipment.”
By the time they returned to Handyman Hall, Lady Maud had laid her plans.
So had Sir Giles. The first moment of elation at the prospect of a divorce had worn off and Sir Giles, weighing the matter up in his mind, had recognized some ugly possibilities. For one thing he did not relish the thought of being cross-examined about his private life by some eminent barrister. The newspapers, particularly one or two of the Sundays, would have a ball with Lady Maud’s description of their honeymoon. Worse still, he would be unable to issue writs for libel. The story could be verified by the hotel manager and while Sir Giles might well win the divorce case and retain the Hall he would certainly lose his public reputation. No, the matter would have to be handled in some less conspicuous manner. Sir Giles picked up a pencil and began to doodle.
The problem was a simple one. The divorce, if and when it came, must be on grounds of his own choosing. He must be free from any breath of scandal. It was too much to hope that Lady Maud would find a lover, but desperation might drive her to some act of folly. Sir Giles rather doubted it, and besides, her age, shape and general disposition made it seem unlikely. And then there was the Hall and the one hundred thousand pounds he had paid for it. He drew a cat and was just considering that there were more ways of making a profit from property than selling it or burning it to the ground when the shape of his drawing, an eight with ears and tail, put him in mind of something he had once seen from the air. A flyover, a spaghetti junction, a motorway.
A moment later he was unfolding an ordnance survey map and studying it with intense interest. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? The Cleene Gorge was the ideal route. It lay directly between Sheffingham and Knighton. And with motorways there came compulsory purchase orders and large sums paid in compensation. The perfect solution. All it needed was a word or two in the right ear. Sir Giles picked up the phone and dialled. By the time Lady Maud returned from Worford he was in excellent humour. Hoskins at the Worfordshire Planning Authority had been most helpful, but then Hoskins had always been helpful. It paid him to be and it certainly paid for a rather larger house than his salary would have led one to expect. Sir Giles smiled to himself. Influence was a wonderful thing.
“I’m going down to London this afternoon,” he told Lady Maud as they sat down to lunch. “One or two business things to fix up. I daresay I shall be tied up for a couple of days.”
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” said Lady Maud.
“If you need me for anything, leave a message with my secretary.”
Lady Maud helped herself to cottage pie. She was in a good humour. She had no doubt whatsoever that Sir Giles indulged his taste for restrictive practices with someone in London. It might take time to find out the name of his mistress but she was prepared to wait.
“Extraordinary woman. Lady Maud,” Mr Turnbull said as he and Mr Ganglion sat in the bar of the Four Feathers in Worford.
“Extraordinary family,” Mr Ganglion agreed. “I don’t suppose you remember her grandmother, the old Countess. No, you wouldn’t. Before your time. I remember drawing up her will in… now when can it have been… must have been in March 1936. Let’s see, she died in June of that year so it must have been in March. Insisted on my inserting the fact that her son. Busby, was of partially royal parentage. I did point out that in that case he was not entitled to inherit but she was adamant. ‘Royal Blood,’ she kept saying. In the end I got her to sign several copies of the will but it was only in the top one that any mention was made of the royal bastardy.”
“Good Lord,” said Mr Turnbull, “do you think there was anything in it?”
Mr Ganglion looked over the top of his glasses at him. “Between ourselves, I must admit it was not outside the bounds of possibility. The dates did match. Busby was born in 1905 and the Royal visit took place in ’04. Edward the Seventh had quite a reputation for that sort of thing.”
“It certainly goes some way to explain Lady Maud’s looks,” Mr Turnbull admitted. “And her arrogance, come to that.”
“These things are best forgotten,” said Mr Ganglion sadly. “What did she want to see you about?”
“She’s seeking a divorce. I dissuaded her, at least temporarily. Seems that Lynchwood has a taste for flagellation.”
“Extraordinary what some fellows like,” said Mr Ganglion. “It’s not as though he went to a public school either. Most peculiar. Still, I should have thought Maud could have satisfied him if anyone could. She’s got a forearm like a navvy.”
“I got the impression that she had rather overdone it,” Mr Turnbull explained.
“Splendid. Splendid.”
“The main trouble seems to be non-consummation. She wants an heir before it’s too late.”
“The perennial obsession of these old families. What did you advise? Artificial insemination?”
Mr Turnbull finished his drink. “Certainly not,” he muttered. “Apparently she’s still a virgin.”
Mr Ganglion sniggered. “There was an old virgin of forty. Whose habits were fearfully naughty. She owned a giraffe whose terrible laugh… or was it distaff? I forget now.”
They went into lunch.
Blott finished his lunch in the greenhouse at the end of the kitchen garden. Around him early geraniums and chrysanthemums, pink and red, matched the colour of his complexion. This was the inner sanctum of Blott’s world where he could sit surrounded by flowers whose beauty was proof to him that life was not entirely without meaning. Through the glass windows he could look down the kitchen garden at the lettuces, the peas and beans, the redcurrant bushes and the gooseberries of which he was so proud. And all around the old brick walls cut out the world he mistrusted. Blott emptied his thermos flask and stood up. Above his head he could see the telephone wires stretching from the house. He went outside and fetched a ladder and presently was busily engaged in attaching his wires to the line above. He was still there when Sir Giles left in the Bentley. Blott watched him pass without interest. He disliked Sir Giles intensely and it was one of the advantages of working in the kitchen garden that they seldom came into contact. He finished his work and fitted the headphones and bell. Then he went into the house. He found Lady Maud washing up in the kitchen.
“It’s ready,” he said, “we can test it.”
Lady Maud dried her hands. “What do I do?”
“When the bell rings put the headphones on,” Blott explained.
“You go into the study and ring a number and I’ll listen,” said Lady Maud. Blott went into the study and sat behind the desk. He picked up the phone and tried to think of someone to call. There wasn’t anyone he knew to call. Finally his eye fell on a number written in pencil on the pad in front of him. Beside it there were some doodles and a drawing of a cat. Blott dialled the number. It was rather a long one and began with 01 and he had to wait some time for an answer.
“Hullo, Felicia Forthby speaking,” said a woman’s voice.
Blott tried to think of something to say. “This is Blott,” he said finally.
“Blott?” said Mrs Forthby. “Do I know you?”
“No,” said Blott.
“Is there anything I can do for you?”