— • —
2.10.1 - Importance of Breakfast
Let us return, for a moment, to the previous evening: In Cromer Town, Stan and Jarge having mardled themselves with notions of steam, and fuddled themselves with oceans of ale, had found their way to the workman's hut belonging to Jarge's cousin. There by dint of striking matches, they found a key under a big flint and eventually fiddled open the door. A decaying chaise-long, a heap of deckchairs and their great-coats provided bedding and a red-eyed road-mender's lanthorn enough light to make themselves comfortable.
Jarge was already snoring by the time Stan had removed his boots and blown out the lamp. Soothed by the sound of the nearby sea they drifted into the sort of deep sleep that can last til noon, unless that is, there is a steam whistle primed to blast you awake about an hour after dawn:
“Wussat?” say Stan, rolling off the heap of deckchairs, “Gawd, moi hed!”
“Grumph!” say Jarge, as his eyelids fail to obey a command to open.
“Thar wuz a noise,” say Stan, “Like a banshee.”
“Dint hare nuff'n,” mutter Jarge, “Sep'yew clatter'n bludda deckchairs.”
Above and beyond the workman's hut, on the West-Cliff Leas, Chauffeur Evans, having raised enough steam to blow the horseless-caravan's whistle, placed the coffee pot on the hottest ledge of the firebox and peered into the billycan hanging below the fizzling safety-valve. Satisfied with its gleanings, he stropped his razor then used the near boiling water to soap and scrape the lower half of his face and neck, carefully navigating around the generous moustache and coordinated sideburns required by his profession.
“Thar'ut gOo agin,” say Stan, as Evans celebrates the pouring of coffee with a second blast of his steam whistle.
“Blust me 'Bor,” say Jarge, cradl'n his ach'n skull, “Jus'as Oi wuz tell'n yer las'nite, th'fucher hev arriv'd.”
“Wuss'ut gotta dew wi'us?” say Stan, “As Oi wuz tell'n yew, thet'll nut ketch up wi'us in Mardlum.”
“Wull Oi made up moi mind,” say Jarge, “Oi reckon'ut shud.”
“Yew'r owt a'yer skull,” say Stan, “Orl thus new-fangle squit iz nuth'n but truble. Th'telegruf f'instance.”
“Wos wrong wi'thet?” say Jarge, “Jus'wot yew nede ter send 'lectric letters orl roun'th'world.”
“Wen wuz the'las'toime yew neded t'dew thet?” say Stan.
“Oi hev sent a telagrum,” say Jarge, “Yew wuz thar.”
“Wull thet wuz a joke,” say Stan, “Oi spuz nex'yew'l be plan'n wun wi'a steam enjun.”
“Oi spuz Oi mite,” say Jarge, “Now less gOo look'n fer thet steam'n gret whistler.”
“An'brekfuss,” say Stan, “Gitcha importances rite.”
— • —
2.10.2 - Raising some Steam
Quentin Charamy (pronounced ‘Shurramie’) was born in April 1792, a determined and intelligent child, ready, like Herakles, to strangle any snakes that might stray into his cot, or at least outsmart them until his nurse arrived with a broom. Fortunately for the local serpents, his birthplace had been the master bedroom of a West Norfolk farmhouse and not a reptile infested bungalow in the Far East, such as might even then have been found in places like Rollsby, Martham and Scratby Gap.
By the time he appeared in the Ragamuffin's recent fishy adventure, he had become a retired Colonel. The product of a long and semi-distinguished service career, which had taken him to most parts of the Empire, and where he had taken the maximum number of opportunities to engage in angling and watercolour sketching, and as few as possible that might involve muskets, pikes and pistols. This is not a reflection on his courage or warrior skills, it's just that he preferred to throw his victims back rather than run them through.
So far in the narrative, he has been referred to as the ‘gentleman’ or ‘gentleman-angler’, but now that he is about to take a firmer grip on a certain thread of the plot, perhaps a handier handle will emerge. His major initials are ‘Q.C.’ hence, to his military fellows he is known as ‘The Judge’ (Queen's Council) - by a similar but lengthened logic his fishing companions call him ‘Scales’ short for ‘Scales of Justice’. As for what he'll be called in the narrative, I'm not planning to choose for him. I've no doubt he will soon get round to introducing himself, which will settle the matter nicely.
On this fine morning, he is just sitting on the balcony of his hotel room, overlooking the leas, where his chauffeur is busy shovelling a breakfast of best Welsh steam coal into the belly of a certain horseless caravan. An elegant, if noisy, vehicle converted from the chassis and carcassing of a defunct London steam Omnibus.
As the chauffeur had already explained to Jarge at their previous meeting, the builder and original operator of the vehicle, part of a fleet of about ten similar steam carriages, had been Mr Walter Hancock, (see note) Engineer and Omnibus Contractor lately of Stratford, East London, but more recently of The Eastern Counties Railway. A company in which the gentleman-angler had a significant shareholding, and for which Mr Hancock is currently attempting to build a railway locomotive, which is what Jarge is expounding to Stan as they saunter onto the leas.
— • —
Author's Note:
Walter Hancock was one of the most successful of the early steam engineers. Between 1824 and 1840 he built about ten steam passenger vehicles, which reliably travelled many thousands of miles around London. After 1840, steam carriages were forced off the roads by high road tolls, deteriorating roads and sabotage by commercial rivals afraid of their effect on more traditional means of transport. However, the Locomotive Act of 1861 improved things by cutting the tolls, but imposed a weight limit of 12 tons and a 10 MPH speed limit, reducing to 5 MPH in built-up areas. The Red Flag Act, which later brought steam powered road vehicles to an innovation standstill, was not passed until after the time period covered by the Mardlingham Saga.
— • —
2.10.3 - Coal Smoke and Coffee
In expounding the subject to Stan, Jarge is surprising himself with the amount of information he has already acquired on the subject of steam power. Particularly in the matter of coal and its qualities when chosen as a fuel for various purposes. For Stan, coal is coal, mucky black stuff that despite the cost, dust, clinker and ash is somehow more convenient than wood for winter heating and year-round cooking.
It is early on Sunday morning, they are considerably hung-over from a determined attempt to drink Jarge out of his mental confusion and have spent the night in a workman's hut; what they should be doing is looking for breakfast or attending church; what they are actually doing is following their noses. In view, despite a few lingering tendrils of sea mist, not yet dispersed by the morning sun, is an elegant horseless carriage, a steam powered caravan, alive and fizzling, steamy, smokey and smelly:
“Wud yew say thet wuz Welsh or Yorksh'r?” say Jarge, inhaling with gusto.
“Stink loike cole-smuk, ter me,” say Stan, “Wi'a tuche a'corfee.”
“Blust Bor,” say Jarge, wi'a grin, “Thet dew hev sum corfee in'ut.”
“Thar wuz tea an'a kittle in th'shud,” say Stan, hew had brekfuss orn hiz moind, “But yew wudn't weart. ‘Thas whussl'n’ yew say. ‘Thettle be orf afore we see'ut’ yew say. Wull we dint git no brekfuss, Oi say.”
“Stop yer mawther'n,” say Jarge, “Hint thet a view wuth mor'un brekfuss?”
“Oi dunt see thet'ut iz,” say Stan, “But Oi spuz Oi'll hetta put up wi'ut.”
“Good morning, gentlemen,” says the chauffeur, “George, isn't it?”
“An a fine marn'n thet iz,” say Jarge, “Thussear's Stan, but he dunt see no point in steam.”
“Nut afor brekfuss,” say Stan, “No offense intend'd.”
“Breakfast, no,” says the chauffeur, “Coffee, yes. If you don't mind sharing a billy-can.”
“Thas werra civil ov'yer,” say Stan, “We be'en pars'n strangers asa'twere.”
“Well,” says the chauffeur, holding out an oily hand, “Let us introduce ourselves. I'm Evans and this is Blodwyn.”
“Pleased t'mete yer,” say Stan, “But howger shake hands wi'a caravan?”
“Not a 'van,” says the chauffeur, “Blodwyn's just a steam engine in fancy dress. She doesn't shake hands but you could give that chain a little tug.”
“Good God,” says the gentleman, arriving with a small train of porters, “Not just a whistle, but bells.”
“It's the church,” says the chauffeur, “Annoyed at the competition.”
“Now now, Evans,” says the gentleman, “Let's not get cynical.”
“May I enquire if Miss Charamy will be joining us? Sir,” Says the chauffeur.
“Not until after morning service,” says the gentleman, “She will be meeting us in Corpusty, this afternoon.”
“Very good, sir,” says the chauffeur, “Shall I stow the luggage?”
“If you please,” says the gentleman, “Then we must be off.”
— • —
2.10.4 - River, Steam or Horse-power?
Once beyond the last few cottages, the chauffeur opens the regulator and Blodwyn responds with a display of steamy exhuberance and a fine drift of smuts from her short funnel. Stan and Jarge watch them leave, then wander back into Cromer to find themselves a quiet inn with a courtyard where they can discuss travel arrangements and hopefully find some breakfast. Later, they are directed to another inn, where they are offered a ride with a coachman returning to Saxthorpe with an empty carriage. Since that is nearer Mardlingham than Cromer, they decide to take him up on the offer and by lunchtime have caught up with Blodwyn refreshing herself in the ford by the side of Corpusty-cum-Saxthorpe Mill.
“Wooah hay,” say Jarge, dropp'n down frum th'pillion seat a'th'carriage, “We meet agin.”
“Dunt bother th'man now,” say Stan, dew'n th'searm, “He's bizza wortr'n th'orses.”
“Oi spuz thas true,” say Jarge, tarn'n tew th'chauffeur, “How menna 'orse-power dew thet hev?”
“Difficult to say,” says the chauffeur, “We've never tested it.”
“James Watt, a pioneer of steam who you may have heard of,” says the gentleman, “Determined by experiment that a horse could do 33,000 foot-pounds of work per minute when drawing coal from a pit. How that relates to my van is somewhat debatable.”
“Oi spuz yew cud set'ut agin a string a'beasts,” say Jarge, “An'see how menna thet tearke ter stop'ut.”
“That would give you some idea of the Brake Horse Power,” says the gentleman, “For Horsepower itself, you would need to set up a race to determine the number of horses needed to pull the same load at the same top speed.”
“Hev yew tried it fer speed?” say Stan, wi'a grin, “Izz'ut quick?”
“Not allowed,” says the chauffeur, “Ten miles per hour is the limit.”
“Wull, hews t'see?” say Jarge, “Jam th'guv'ner an'let har rip! Thas wot Oi say.”
“Git thet infernal machine owta moi river,” say th'miller, storm'n owta th'mill-house, “Yew shud know bett'n ter bring thet smutty spark-spitter nere a mill.”
“Oi dunt hare th'wheel tarn'n,” say Jarge, think'n a'th'splosiff effects a'flar dust, “So yew hint grind'n.”
“Nemmoind grind'n!” say th'miller, glar'n a'th'caravan, “Them sort hint requir'd roun'hare.”
“Wot sort'uz thet?” say Jarge, bristl'n loike a dawg.
“Nut yew, them,” say th'miller, “Cole barners and steamers. Teak'n the bred owtta th'mowth a'honest millers.”
“Oi'll bet,” say Jarge, “Thet sune as th'railway git hare wi'cheap cole, yew'll be begg'n fer a steam enjun.”
“Ha! Nut him,” say Stan, “NOo tearkers on thet wun.”
“Is the water-tank replete, Evans?” asks the gentleman, “I think it's time to leave.”
— • —
Useful Link:
Details and photos of Corpusty/Saxthorpe Mill.
— • —
2.10.5 - No Fooling the Dog
When we last saw Ted and Ginny it was by the grey light of the false dawn. They were mounted on two large bay mares, feeling their way upsteam along the bank of a narrow brook, wondering where they were and what had happened to Raggs.
Of course, it was Raggs who had got them lost by following a false trail. Being a dog, Raggs was not lost, he had every confidence in his nose's ability to find the scent that would take him where he wanted to go, even false trails added useful data to the olfactory map he was building in his head.
He didn't need his nose to keep track of Ted and Ginny, two mares shouldering their way through the undergrowth made all the noise he needed. The foxy stink of the woman carrying the human puppy was another thing. She knew something about tracking and by doubling back and joining a traveller convoy had almost managed to throw him off the scent. Naturally, now that he had the full picture, false trails and all, it was obvious where she could be found, all he had to do was to track the convoy.
“Sunrise,” say Ted, as all around them the woodland birds set up their stalls and begin calling their wares.
“Cockcrow,” say Ginny, as the chicken-lord of some nearby farm brings it to lowing life, “An'cattle.”
“Chuch tarr,” say Ted, pointing, “Thet way.”
“Rite,” say Ginny, “Iz'ut wun we know?”
“If yew meen iz'ut Mardlum,” say Ted, “Then thet'int, cuz thas th'ony wun Oi know.”
“Wull dew we hed furr'ut, a'nut?” say Ginny, “Wate, wuz thet Raggs?”
“Sum dawg, enaway,” say Ted, “Sou'west, crors th'ling.”
“Wull thas ony heather,” say Ginny, “Plenna a'rabbut parths t'folla.”
“Thar he gOo agin,” say Ted, “Iz thet a ‘Gorn ter ground’ d'yer reckon?”
“Blust nOo,” say Ginny, “More loike a ‘Hurry up’ Oi'd say.”
After a while, with Raggs calls never seeming to be any nearer they reach a place they recognise, the ford at Little London. From there it's a short ride into the village of Corpusty. Raggs is waiting for them on the far side, so after letting the horses drink they do the same themselves.
“Now wot?” say Ginny, as Raggs lollops off, snuffles round for a trail then turns to wait.
“He seem ter know wot,” say Ted, “Oi hope ‘wot’ include brekfuss.”
“Thet meake tew a'rus,” say Ginny, “Oi smell wud-smuk.”
“An'rabbut stew,” say Ted, “Or iz'ut wishful think'n?”
“Travellers?” say Ginny, “Gypsies a'rorse-traders?”
— • —
2.10.6 - Humanity and Friendship
Miss Amelia Charamy, niece to Colonel Quentin Charamy, well known for her vigorous watercolours of rural life and fine architectural etchings, blends well with the travellers camped on Corpusty Green. The browns and russets of her Norwich shawl and the red silk headscarf holding back her dark brown hair are all very much in keeping with the company. Not so the easel and accompanying tressled box crowded with half-squeezed tubes of watercolour paints, few of the travellers would pose their artistry in such a way, despite the brash eloquence of their vans.
Viewed from Miss Amelia's eagle eye, the tip of her size three sable was about to tickle a certain babies nose. Viewed from the foxy eye of the woman holding the baby, the distant brush represented a silver thripenny-bit and maybe another to follow. Viewed by some future art-lover, the square of stretched handmade Watman's paper would have contained an image distilling the very essence of traveller life, that's if the sketch is ever finished and finds its way onto a gallery wall.
A few hundred yards to the north, in the adjoining village of Saxthorpe, her uncle and his chauffeur are about to cross the border at the ford by the watermill and steam up towards Corpusty Green. Stan and Jarge, rather than cross the border with wet boots, have found a footpath behind the mill that should take them in much the same direction, except that the miller has redeployed himself as a blockage:
“Oi thort yew wuz wiv th'bludda steam enjun,” say th'miller.
“Just 'quaintenses,” say Stan, “Pass'n th'toime a day.”
“Wot if we wuz?” say Jarge, hew wuz still feel'n b'ligerunt.
“Nut as bad as GypOos,” say th'miller, “Them steamers.”
“Peeple iz peeple,” say Stan, “Sum gud, sum nut s'gud.”
“Hefta arsk yersel,” say th'miller, “Dew they add wate t'yer puss, or dew they nut?”
“Thas orl, iz'ut?” say Jarge, “Umanity an'frenshup gOo by th'bord?”
“Oi pay th'pore rates,” say th'miller, “Oi pay fer wuk dun. Wut more d'yew wunt?”
“Oi thort Oi jus sed,” say Jarge, inspect'n hiz nuckles.
“Nemmoind,” say th'miller, “Justa warn yer, thar's GypOos clutter'n up th'Green.”
“Gud,” say Stan, “Oi nede ter buy me a'norse.”
“Wut abowt yew?” say th'miller, “Yew after a'norse, tew?”
“Karnt tell til Oi git thar,” say Jarge, thump'n hiz lef'parm wi'hiz rite fist, “An'suthun keep gitt'n in th'way.”
“Oi'll be orf, then,” say th'miller as he tarn to gOo, “An'may God rot yer bewtes fer trad'n on a Sunday.”
— • —
As soon as Ginny reaches Corpusty Village Green, she realises the infant at the center of artistic attention is the one stolen from her arms in Blickling Woods. Not only is she overwhelmed by an instinctive feeling of certainty, but there is the evidence of the baby's swaddling. Only one of the five strange Mardlingham mothers would wrap her baby in a shawl so heavily be-ribboned with bright silks that it flashes like fairy-lights in contrast with the natural homespun of the Traveller's other children.
Raggs, relying on his nose, bounds across the Green towards Foxy Annie, but is diverted by a scrawny terrier rushing out from under a caravan, and pounced on by a border collie from behind another. With other defending dogs joining the fray from every direction, he stands no chance of reaching the baby. In fact, he may stand little chance at all. However he has one advantage, as a long-haired dog he is difficult to hold on to, mainly because in such circumstances his coat has a tendency to come out in mouthfulls.
Stan and Jarge, who have also just reached the Green, see the dogs before they see anything else:
“Bludda dawgs,” say Jarge, “Allus got summat t'brawl abowt.”
“Thet wuz Ginny's dawg,” say Stan, “Oi'm fare sarten.”
“Thet shure soun'loike'im,” say Jarge, breaking a long branch from a birch, “He hev a yelp, thet split yer skul.”
“Pitta we hint gotta a bullwhip,” say Stan, stripping the leaves and side twigs from the stick Jarge has handed him.
“Rite,” say Jarge, “Now, less sting a few tails.”
“Thas ony fare,” say Stan, “Ter even owt th'yelp'n.”
“Hey! Yew!” say a large man who does have a bull-whip.
“Iz he tork'n t'rus?” say Stan, fend'n orf the collie as Raggs slips out from the bottom of the dog-pile.”
“Yis,” say the man, “Oi am.”
“Wull,” say Jarge, planting his stick in the ground between the fellow's legs, “Moind how yew gOo.”
“Moind yerself,” say the man, stepping back to avoid Jarges stick and tripping over Stan's, “..... Shit!”
“Putcher bewte orn thet whip,” say Jarge, hacking the bloke across the shins and turning back to growl at the dogs.
“Wotch'it,” say Stan, pointing his stick at the bloke's throat.
On the other side of the Green, the scouting party on the pair of bay mares has ridden as far in among the caravans and tents as they can get:
“Hold yer'orses,” say Ted, as Ginny swings down from the saddle and heads for the baby, leaving the horse holding job to him.
It is at that moment that two shots crease the air. The first is the sharp crack of a small pistol, one of a pair held high by the gentleman standing on the tiller platform at the front of his steam caravan. The other, a solid thump like a howitzer, comes from behind Stan and Jarge. It is the miller discharging an enormous scattergun over their heads. The entire Green fills with the sound of half a pound of barley falling like a squall of rain. There is a shocked silence, broken by a strong contralto voice:
“And just WHAT do you ALL think you are doing?” says Miss Amelia Charamy, and of all the creatures on the Green, the only ones not cowed into silence are the baby and the terrier.
“You,” says Miss Amelia, pointing at Ginny while tipping her paint-water jar over the dog, “What are you doing with that child?”
“Er...” says Ginny, “Please mumm, thet wuz stolen.”
“Is it yours?” says Miss Amelia, with a seriously disapproving look.
“Thet wuz in moi charge,” say Ginny, “Yisterday.”
“She's tell'n'ut true,” say Ted, getting down from his horse.
“Is it your child?” asks Miss Amelia, with an even more disapproving look.
“NOo mumm,” say Ted, “Th'maw live in Mardlum.”
“Perhaps I wont ask about the pa,” says Miss Amelia, “Let's save that as a treat for later.”
“Now Evans,” says she to the chauffeur, “Instil order into this shambles, and disarm my dear uncle before he starts a war.”
“Now thet,” say Jarge, “Wud hev ter gOo against th'grain.”
“And you are?” says Miss Amelia, crossing her arms.
— • —
2.10.8 - Miss Amelia Dominates
With the woman glaring at him eye to eye, for she is a substantial example of Empire built British female, Jarge introduces himself and Stan then waits for her to reciprocate. However, Miss Amelia Charamy is not in a reciprocating mood:
“Prey enlighten me,” she says, “What do you know about all this?”
“Werra little,” say Jarge, “Oi'm jus'hare for th'steam.”
“I see,” says Miss Amelia, “One of my uncle's misguided disciples.”
“Maybe,” say Jarge, “An'mebbie nut. Dew he need disiples?”
“Coal and water,” says she, “Is all he seems to need, and most of the water he uses for fishing.”
“Yew still hint sed hew yew ar,” say Stan, seeking to broaden the discussion.
“Do I need to prove my credentials?” says Miss Amelia, “To people with nothing to impart.”
“Oi spuz nut,” say Stan, putting a restraining hand on Jarge's arm.
“Well I suggest you tend to the dog,” says Miss Amelia, “Evans will find you some iodine.”
Raggs is certainly in need of a few patches, but not as many as he would have needed, if the attacking dogs had been coordinated against him. Fortunately, most of the combatents had agendas of their own and old scores to settle, so by the time Jarge and Stan had broken up the fight most of the other dogs were playing politics among themselves and had forgotton he was there.
While Stan and Jarge escort Raggs in the direction of the Steam Caravan, Miss Amelia turns her attention to the problem of the baby, which is strongly objecting to being rescued. Foxy Annie is wringing her hands and muttering about nannie-goats and wet-nursing. Ginny is holding the baby and wondering just what to do next. The baby is prune-faced and squawking and Ted is trying to make some sort of shawl sling by which Ginny can carry the baby on the back of one of the bay mares.
“It will have to be fed,” says Miss Amelia, pointing at Annie, “You, how have you been feeding it?”
“Lots mumm, orfun mumm,” say Annie “Oi bin a nurse mumm.”
“Then feed it now,” says Miss Amelia, “Before the damn thing explodes like one of my Uncle's boilers.”
“NOo,” say Ginny, as Annie trys to snatch back the child.
“Oi karnt feed'ut less Oi hev'ut,” say Annie, “Yew wunt dew'ut rite.”
“Yew shant hev'ut less yew tell me wut yer gawn ter dew,” say Ginny.
“Stupid mawther,” say Annie, “Yew yung gals ar'orl th'searme.”
“Come on,” says Miss Amelia, “We haven't got all day!”
“She wunt tell me wut she reckon ter dew,” say Ginny.
“She wunt let me git orn wi'ut,” say Annie.
“I expect she's going to hang it on a goat's dug,” says Miss Amelia, “Now let her get on with it and stop the thing making that diabolical noise.”
— • —
2.10.9 - Brace of Telegrams
On the Monday morning after the Saturday day-trip, the village of Little Mardlingham has seen the return of all its denizens except Fribbins and Sir Marcus's London party. The abducted baby is reunited with its mother and twin, Ginny and Raggs are back at Home Farm, Ted has returned to the attic dormitory above the stables behind The Big House, Bea is back at the Crossed Arms and Boy Jimma is returning to Norwich with the dray-cum-charrabang.
You will remember that Sir Marcus's party, made up of Himself, Rosamunda, Miss Roberts, the estate steward and Charles the coachman, are currently visiting the metropolis of London. Thanks to the wonders of the new electric telegraph system, an item of news is about to arrive on the breakfast table at Belle Vale House in Bedford Place:
“Thank you Charles,” says Rosamunda, taking a small brown envelope from the proffered silver tray.
“What is my dear?” asks Sir Marcus, who has already received a similar missive some ten minutes earlier.
“From my brother,” says Rosamunda, “Apparently I'm to tell you your butler is missing, owing to an accident during the return from the village outing.”
“Ah,” says Sir Marcus, “I'm ahead of you there, my dear.”
“You already know?” says Rosamunda, “You didn't tell me.”
“I thought I should wait,” says Sir Marcus, “The story, as I have it at present, is most concerning and of doubtful accuracy.”
“Prey do not be so protective,” says Rosamunda, “Unless the matter is private, of course. Perhaps you would prefer it if Miss Roberts should withdraw from the table?”
“I feel no need to be private with my news,” says Sir Marcus, “But would spare both you ladies undue concern.”
“Come come, Sir Marcus,” says Miss Roberts, Rosamunda's companion, “We gals are not the ‘shrinking violet’ type.”
“Nor,” smiles Rosamunda, “The shrieking violent type, despite Miss Roberts armory.”
“I trust there are no revolvers about your person at the breakfast table, Miss Roberts,” says Sir Marcus, raising an eyebrow at the chaperone.
“Dare I say it,” says Miss Roberts, drawing a frown from Rosamunda at her forwardness, “But you might be surprised at what can be stowed in a bustle.”
“Talking of servants,” says Rosamunda, “You seem unconcerned that my telegram announces the loss of your butler.
“Ah, mine adds to that,” says Sir marcus, “Apparently he is arraigned for murder and currently awaiting the convening of a magistrates' court in the market town of Aylsham.”
“May the good Lord have mercy,” say Rosamunda, “Surely not?”
“Can they expect you to sit on the bench in such a case,” says Miss Roberts, “Surely you would have to declare an interest.”
“You understand the law?” asks Sir Marcus, glancing speculatively at Miss Roberts.
“My brother is a barrister,” says Miss Roberts, “But has yet to find a place in Lincoln's Inn.”
“Handy relatives to have,” says Rosamunda, a bit miffed at losing the centre of attention, “For those with big guns.”
“Nevertheless,” says Sir Marcus, “I shall have to return to Norfolk.”
— • —
— • —
All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
What a good episode. Interesting indeed.