Blott on the Landscape

Chapter 20

By the time they reached Handyman Hall it was two o’clock in the morning but the park was well lit. Under the floodlights men were busily engaged in erecting the fencing posts and already one side of the park was fenced in. Lady Maud drove round to have a look and congratulated Mr Firkin, the manager, on the progress.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to pay the bonus,” he told her. “At this rate we’ll be finished in ten days.”

“Make it a week,” said Lady Maud. “Money’s no problem.” She went into the house and up to bed well content. Money was no object now. In the morning she would withdraw every penny from their joint account at Westland Bank in Worford and deposit it in her own private account at the Northern. Sir Giles would scream blue murder but there was nothing he could do. He had signed the share transfer certificates if not of his own free will at least in circumstances which made it impossible for him to argue otherwise. And besides she still held one card up her sleeve, the photographs of Dundridge. She would call on the little goose and force him to admit that he had been blackmailed by Giles. Once she had proof of that there would be no question of the motorway continuing. She wouldn’t even have to bother with her own awful photographs. Giles would be in jail, his seat in Parliament empty, a bye-election, and the whole wretched business finished.

Whatever happened now she was safe and so was the Hall. “Fight fire with fire,” she thought and lay in bed considering the strange set of circumstances that had turned her from a plain, simple home-loving woman, a Justice of the Peace and a respectable member of the community, into a blackmailer dealing in obscene photographs and extorting signatures under threat of torture. Evidently the blood of her ancestors who had held the Gorge (by fair means and foul) against all comers still ran in her veins.

“You can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs,” she murmured, and fell asleep.

In Mrs Forthby’s flat one of the eggs in question lay in his frilly bonnet desperately trying to think of some way out of both his predicaments and promising himself that he would murder Nanny Fucking Whip as soon as he got free. Not that there seemed much chance of that before morning. Nanny Whip was snoring loudly on the sofa in the sitting-room. One look at Sir Giles’ suffused face had been enough to persuade her that Naughty Boy’s naughtiness had not diminished during her absence. A policy of continued restraint seemed called for. Nanny Whip went into the kitchen and hit the bottle of cooking brandy. “A drop will give me some Dutch courage,” she thought and poured herself a large glass. By the time she had finished it she had forgotten what she had been taking it for. “A little of what you fancy does you good,” she murmured, and collapsed on to the sofa.

A little of what Sir Giles fancied wasn’t doing him any good at all. Besides, eight hours wasn’t a little. As the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hours Sir Giles’ thoughts turned from murder to the more lurid forms of slow torture and in between he tried to think what the hell to do about Maud. There didn’t seem anything he could do short of applying for the Chiltern Hundreds, resigning from all his clubs, realizing his assets and taking a quick trip to Brazil where the extradition laws didn’t apply. And even then he wasn’t sure he had any assets to realize. At about four in the morning it dawned on him that some of those pieces of paper he had signed had looked remarkably like share transfer certificates. At the time he hadn’t been in any shape to consider them at all carefully. Not that he was in any better shape now but at least the threat of following Edward the Second to an agonizing death had been removed. Finally exhausted by his ordeal he fell into a semi-coma, waking every now and then to consider new and more awful fates for that absent-minded old sot in the next room.

Mrs Forthby woke with a hangover. She staggered off the sofa and ran a bath and it was only when she was drying herself that she remembered Sir Giles.

“Oh dear, he will be cross,” she thought, and went through to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. She carried the tray through to the bedroom and put it down on the bedside table. “Wakey, wakey, rise and shine,” she said cheerfully and untied the straps. Sir Giles spat the dummy out of his mouth. This was the moment he had been waiting twelve hours for but there was no rising and shining for Sir Giles. He slithered sideways off the bed and crawled towards Mrs Forthby like a crab with rheumatoid arthritis.

“No, no, you naughty boy,” said Mrs Forthby horrified at his colour. She rushed out of the room and locked herself in the bathroom. There was no need to hurry. Behind her Sir Giles was stuck in the bedroom door and one of his legs had attached itself inextricably to a standard lamp.

In his office at the Regional Planning Board the Controller Motorways Midlands was having second thoughts about his plan for proving that Lady Maud was a blackmailer. The wretched woman had phoned the switchboard to say that she was coming in to Worford and wanted a word in private with him. Dundridge could well understand her desire for privacy but he did not share it. He had seen more than enough of Lady Maud in private and he had no intention of seeing any more. On the other hand she was hardly likely to threaten him with blackmail in front of a large audience. Dundridge paced up and down his office trying to find some way out of the quandary. In the end he decided to use Hoskins as a bodyguard. He sent for him.

“We’ve flushed the old cow out with that dynamiting,” he said.

“We’ve done what?” said Hoskins.

“She’s coming to see me this morning. I want you to be present.”

Hoskins had his doubts. “I don’t know about that,” he muttered. “And anyway, we haven’t started dynamiting yet.”

“But the task force has moved in, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, though I do wish you wouldn’t call it a task force. All this military jargon is getting on my nerves.”

“Never mind that,” said Dundridge. “The point is that she’s coming. I want you to conceal yourself somewhere where you can hear what she has to say and make an appearance if she turns nasty.”

“Turns nasty?” said Hoskins. “The bloody woman is nasty. She doesn’t have to turn it.”

“I mean if she becomes violent,” Dundridge explained. “Now then, we’ve got to find somewhere for you to hide.” He looked hopefully at a filing cabinet but Hoskins was adamant.

“Why can’t I just sit in the corner?” he asked.

“Because she wants to see me in private.”

“Well then see her in private for God’s sake,” said Hoskins. “She isn’t likely to assault you.”

“That’s what you think,” said Dundridge. “And in any case I want you as a witness. I have reason to believe that she is going to make an attempt to blackmail me.”

“Blackmail you?” said Hoskins turning pale. He didn’t like that “reason to believe”. It smacked of a policeman giving evidence.

“With photographs,” said Dundridge.

“With photographs?” echoed Hoskins, now thoroughly alarmed.

“Obscene photographs,” said Dundridge, with a deal more confidence than Hoskins happened to know was called for.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I’m going to tell her to go jump in a lake,” said Dundridge.

Hoskins looked at him incredulously. To think that he had once described this extraordinary man as a nincompoop. The bastard was as tough as nails.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said finally, “I’ll stand outside the door and listen to what she says. Will that do?”

Dundridge said it would have to and Hoskins hurried back to his office and phoned Mrs Williams.

“Sally,” he said, “this is you-know-who.”

“I don’t, you know,” said Mrs Williams, who had had a hard night.

“It’s me. Horsey, horsey catkins,” snarled Hoskins desperately searching for a pseudonym that would deceive anyone listening in on the switchboard.

“Horsey horsey catkins?”

“Hoskins, for God’s sake,” whispered Hoskins.

“Oh, Hoskins, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

Hoskins controlled his frayed temper. “Listen carefully,” he said, “the gaff’s blown. The gaff. Gee for Gifuckingraffe. A for Animal. F for Freddie.”

“What’s it mean?” interrupted Mrs Williams.

“The fuzz,” said Hoskins. “It means the balloon’s going to go up. Burn the lot, you understand. Negatives, prints, the tootee. You’ve never heard of me and I’ve never heard of you. Get it. No names, no pack drill. And you’ve never been near the Golf Club.”

By the time he had put the phone down Mrs Williams had got the message. So had Hoskins. If Mrs Williams was going to be nabbed, he could be sure that he would be standing in the dock beside her. She had left him in no doubt about that.

He went back to Dundridge’s office and was there to open the door for Lady Maud when she arrived. Then he stationed himself outside and listened.

Inside Dundridge nerved himself for the ordeal. At least with Hoskins outside the door he could always call for help and in any case Lady Maud seemed to be rather better disposed towards him than he had expected.

“Mr Dundridge,” she said, taking a seat in front of his desk, “I would like to make it quite clear that I have come here this morning in no spirit of animosity. I know we’ve had our little contretemps in the past but as far as I am concerned all is forgiven and forgotten.”

Dundridge looked at her balefully and said nothing. As far as he was concerned nothing was ever likely to be forgotten and certainly he wasn’t in a forgiving mood.

“No, I have come here to ask for your co-operation,” she went on, “and I want to assure you that what I am about to say will go no further.”

Dundridge glanced at the door and said he was glad to hear it.

“Yes, I rather thought you might be,” said Lady Maud, “you see I have reason to believe that you have been the subject of a blackmail attempt.”

Dundridge stared at her. She knew damned well he had been subject to blackmail.

“What makes you think that?”

“These photographs,” said Lady Maud and, producing an envelope from her handbag, she spread the torn and charred fragments of the photographs out on the desk. Dundridge studied them carefully. Why the hell were they torn and charred? He sorted through them looking for his face. It wasn’t there. If she thought she was going to blackmail him with this lot she was very much mistaken.

“What about them?” he asked.

“You know nothing about them?”

“Certainly not,” said Dundridge, thoroughly confident now. He knew what had happened. He had left these photographs on Mr Ganglion’s desk. Ganglion had torn them up and thrown them in the fire and had then changed his mind. He had taken them out and had visited Lady Maud and explained that he, Dundridge, had accused her of blackmail. And here she was trying to wriggle out of it. Her next remark confirmed this theory.

“Then my husband has never tried to influence you in any of your decisions by using these photographs,” he said.

“Your husband? Your husband?” said Dundridge indignantly. “Are you suggesting that your husband has attempted to blackmail me with these… obscene photographs?”

“Yes,” said Lady Maud, “that is exactly what I am suggesting.”

“Then all I can say is that you are mistaken. Sir Giles has always treated me with the greatest consideration and courtesy, which is,” he glanced at the door before continuing courageously, “more than I can say for you.”

Lady Maud looked at him, mystified. “Is that all you have to say?”

“Yes,” said Dundridge, “except this. Why don’t you take those photographs to the police?”

Lady Maud hesitated. She hadn’t bargained on this attitude from Dundridge. “I don’t think that would be very sensible, do you?”

“Yes,” said Dundridge, “as a matter of fact I do. Now then I am a busy man and you are wasting my time. You know your way out.”

Lady Maud rose from her chair wrathfully. “How dare you speak to me like that?” she shouted.

Dundridge leapt out of his chair and opened the door. “Hoskins,” he said, “show Lady Maud Lynchwood out.”

“I will find my own way,” said Lady Maud, and stormed past them and down the corridor. Dundridge went back into his office and collapsed into his chair. He had called her bluff. He had shown her the door. Nobody could say the Controller Motorways Midlands wasn’t master in his own house. He was astonished at his own performance.

So was Hoskins. He stared at Dundridge for a moment and staggered back to his own office shaken by what he had just heard. She had confronted Dundridge with those awful photographs and he had had the nerve to tell her to take them to the police. My God, a man who could do that was capable of doing anything. The fat was really in the fire now. On the other hand she had said it wouldn’t be sensible. Hoskins agreed with her wholeheartedly. “She must be protecting Sir Giles,” he thought and wondered how the hell she had got hold of the photographs in the first place. For a moment he thought of phoning Sir Giles but decided against it. The best thing to do was to sit tight and keep his mouth shut and hope that things would blow over.

He had just reached this comforting conclusion when the bell rang. It was Dundridge again. Hoskins went back down the corridor and found the Controller in a jubilant mood.

“Well that’s put paid to that little scheme,” he said. “You heard her threatening me with filthy photographs. She thought she was going to get me to use my influence to change the route of the motorway. I told her.”

“You most certainly did,” said Hoskins deferentially.

“Right,” said Dundridge turning to a map he had pinned on the wall, “we must strike while the iron is hot. Operation Overland will proceed immediately. Have the compulsory purchase orders been served?”

“Yes,” said Hoskins.

“And the task force has begun demolition work in the Gorge?”

“Demolition work?”

“Dynamiting.”

“Not yet. They’ve only just moved in.”

“They must start at once,” said Dundridge. “We must keep the initiative and maintain the pressure. I intend to establish a mobile HQ here.” He pointed to a spot on the map two miles east of Guildstead Carbonell.

“A mobile HQ?” said Hoskins.

“Arrange for a caravan to be set up there. I intend to supervise this operation personally. You and I will move our offices out there.”

“That’s going to be frightfully inconvenient,” Hoskins pointed out.

“Damn the inconvenience,” said Dundridge, “I mean to have that bitch out of Handyman Hall before Christmas come hell or high water. She’s on the run now and by God I mean to see she stays there.”

“Oh all right,” said Hoskins gloomily. He knew better than to argue with Dundridge now.

Lady Maud drove back to the Hall pensively. She could have sworn that the thin legs in the photographs were the legs she had seen twinkling across the marble floor but evidently she had been wrong. Dundridge’s self-righteous indignation had been wholly convincing. She had expected the wretched little man to blush and stammer and make excuses but instead he had stood up to her and ordered her out of his office. He had even suggested she should take the photographs to the police and, considering his pusillanimity in other less threatening circumstances, it was impossible to suppose he had been bluffing. No, she had been wrong. It was a pity. She would have liked to have seen Sir Giles in court, but it hardly mattered. She had enough to be going on with. Sir Giles would move heaven and earth to see that the motorway was stopped now and if he failed she would force him to resign his seat. There would have to be another bye-election and what had worked in the case of Ottertown would work again in the case of the Gorge. The Government would cancel the motorway. And finally if that too failed there was always the Wildlife Park. It was one thing to demolish half a dozen houses and evict the families that lived there, but it was quite a different kettle of fish to deprive ten lions, four giraffes, a rhinoceros and a dozen ostriches of their livelihood. The British public would never stand for cruelty to animals. She arrived at the Hall to find Blott busy washing his films in the kitchen.

“I’ve turned the boiler-room into a darkroom,” he explained, and held up a film for her to look at. Lady Maud studied it inexpertly.

“Have they come out all right?” she asked.

“Very nicely,” said Blott. “Quite lovely.”

“I doubt if Giles would share your opinion,” said Lady Maud and went out into the garden to pick a lettuce for lunch. Blott finished washing his films in the sink and took them down to the boiler-room and hung them up to dry. When he came back lunch was ready on the kitchen table.

“You’ll eat in here with me,” said Lady Maud. “I’m very pleased with you, Blott, and besides, it’s nice to have a man about the house.”

Blott hesitated. It seemed an illogical remark. There appeared to be a great many men about the house, tramping up and down the servants’ stairs to their bedrooms and working day and night on the fencing. Still, if Lady Maud wanted him to eat with her, he was not going to argue. Things were looking up. She was going to get a divorce from her husband. He was in love and while he had no hope of ever being able to do anything about it, he was happy just to sit and eat with her. And then there was the fence. Blott was delighted by the fence. It brought back memories of the war and his happiness as a prisoner. It would shut out the world and he and Maud would live singly but happily ever after.

They had just finished lunch and were washing-up when there was a dull boom in the distance and the windows rattled.

“I wonder what that was,” said Lady Maud.

“Sounded, like blasting,” said Blott.

“Blasting?”

“In a quarry.”

“But there aren’t any quarries round here,” said Lady Maud. They went out on to the lawn and stood looking at a cloud of dust rising slowly into the sky a mile or two to the east.

Operation Overland had begun.