would require a particular kind of wire that had to be cut from a particular kind of roll. And of course none of the Strudwicks had any idea where such a thing could be found. After a fruitless search they eventually fell back on old-fashioned methods of lighting, i.e. candles and paraffin lamps and occasional flashes of lightning.
Sally managed to find an extra bag of coal stuffed in the back of the larder, so she stoked up the Aga and put pans of water on to boil. She’d been asked to supply everyone with fresh cups of tea and insisted that Graham and I stay with her and help. The water took ages to heat up and it was pretty much pitch-dark outside by the time we took fresh drinks and sandwich rations to the drawing-room. I was just carrying a full plate of thinly sliced cake towards Julian and Joe when I stumbled over a rucksack. It had been shoved under the “naughty chair” that Toulouse had been confined to but I’d managed to get my feet caught in the strap. I put the cake down so I could disentangle myself.
A piece of paper was poking out of a side pocket. I pulled it free but it was too dark to read what was written on it. Then a flash of lightning lit up the whole room.
In my hands I held a certificate, signed by a registrar in the presence of two independent witnesses, which clearly stated that a Mademoiselle Camille de la Tour had married a Mr Lancelot Strudwick three months ago.
HIDING EVIDENCE
I didn’t exactly mean to pocket the marriage certificate, but Lancelot and Julian were both heading across the room towards me. They carried lighted candles, which threw sinister shadows on to their faces, and I panicked.
“Whad are you doing?” demanded Lancelot.
“What have you got there?” asked Julian.
Their attention was on the bag, not what was in my hand, so I pulled the rucksack free and threw it to them.
Lancelot caught it. “Whad’s dis?”
“It’s that Frenchman’s!”
“Led me see!”
“You’re not tampering with anything in there!”
“And you’re nod planding anyding!”
While the two cousins were tussling over Toulouse’s bag – spilling hot wax over it and each other in the process – I hurriedly stuffed the crumpled certificate into my pocket.
“Julian! Lancelot! You’re behaving like spoilt children!” Jennifer tried to make peace between them. She failed.
“I want to see what’s inside!”
“You can’d!”
“What is it? What are you fighting over?” asked Jennifer.
“It’s the Frenchman’s bag. I’ll bet there’s some incriminating evidence in here about that mysterious marriage,” growled Julian.
“Only if you pud id dere,” snarled Lancelot. “You’d do anyding to stop me inheriding, wouldn’d you? Bud id won’d work.”
“For heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Jennifer. She sounded tired. “If it really does belong to that poor Toulouse fellow, I suppose none of us will rest until the contents are examined. Let me see it.”
“There’s nothing to stop you shoving something in there yourself, cuz.” Lydia stepped into the fray. “Let me do it.”
“No!” Jennifer’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t put it past you to destroy something important.”
The cousins had reached deadlock. It was Gethin who eventually broke it, clearing his throat and saying quietly, “The most sensible thing to do would be to hand it to a third party, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Well, that’s not you!” snapped Lydia.
“No, I realize that. I thought that perhaps the vicar could do the honours?”
Reverend Bristow seemed embarrassed to be drawn into the argument, but manfully he stepped up to the job. Prising the rucksack from Julian and Lancelot’s reluctant fingers he began to remove the contents: a wallet, a passport, a washbag, two pairs of smelly socks and three pairs of underpants (no one wanted to look too closely at those), a crumpled T-shirt, a damp towel and a pair of grubby jeans.
I suspected that the most important thing from the bag was
Sally managed to find an extra bag of coal stuffed in the back of the larder, so she stoked up the Aga and put pans of water on to boil. She’d been asked to supply everyone with fresh cups of tea and insisted that Graham and I stay with her and help. The water took ages to heat up and it was pretty much pitch-dark outside by the time we took fresh drinks and sandwich rations to the drawing-room. I was just carrying a full plate of thinly sliced cake towards Julian and Joe when I stumbled over a rucksack. It had been shoved under the “naughty chair” that Toulouse had been confined to but I’d managed to get my feet caught in the strap. I put the cake down so I could disentangle myself.
A piece of paper was poking out of a side pocket. I pulled it free but it was too dark to read what was written on it. Then a flash of lightning lit up the whole room.
In my hands I held a certificate, signed by a registrar in the presence of two independent witnesses, which clearly stated that a Mademoiselle Camille de la Tour had married a Mr Lancelot Strudwick three months ago.
HIDING EVIDENCE
I didn’t exactly mean to pocket the marriage certificate, but Lancelot and Julian were both heading across the room towards me. They carried lighted candles, which threw sinister shadows on to their faces, and I panicked.
“Whad are you doing?” demanded Lancelot.
“What have you got there?” asked Julian.
Their attention was on the bag, not what was in my hand, so I pulled the rucksack free and threw it to them.
Lancelot caught it. “Whad’s dis?”
“It’s that Frenchman’s!”
“Led me see!”
“You’re not tampering with anything in there!”
“And you’re nod planding anyding!”
While the two cousins were tussling over Toulouse’s bag – spilling hot wax over it and each other in the process – I hurriedly stuffed the crumpled certificate into my pocket.
“Julian! Lancelot! You’re behaving like spoilt children!” Jennifer tried to make peace between them. She failed.
“I want to see what’s inside!”
“You can’d!”
“What is it? What are you fighting over?” asked Jennifer.
“It’s the Frenchman’s bag. I’ll bet there’s some incriminating evidence in here about that mysterious marriage,” growled Julian.
“Only if you pud id dere,” snarled Lancelot. “You’d do anyding to stop me inheriding, wouldn’d you? Bud id won’d work.”
“For heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Jennifer. She sounded tired. “If it really does belong to that poor Toulouse fellow, I suppose none of us will rest until the contents are examined. Let me see it.”
“There’s nothing to stop you shoving something in there yourself, cuz.” Lydia stepped into the fray. “Let me do it.”
“No!” Jennifer’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t put it past you to destroy something important.”
The cousins had reached deadlock. It was Gethin who eventually broke it, clearing his throat and saying quietly, “The most sensible thing to do would be to hand it to a third party, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Well, that’s not you!” snapped Lydia.
“No, I realize that. I thought that perhaps the vicar could do the honours?”
Reverend Bristow seemed embarrassed to be drawn into the argument, but manfully he stepped up to the job. Prising the rucksack from Julian and Lancelot’s reluctant fingers he began to remove the contents: a wallet, a passport, a washbag, two pairs of smelly socks and three pairs of underpants (no one wanted to look too closely at those), a crumpled T-shirt, a damp towel and a pair of grubby jeans.
I suspected that the most important thing from the bag was
Similar Books
