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2.11.1 - Any Corpse in a Hurry
Firstly I should explain that the Mardlingham Saga is not a detective story or murder mystery, despite such events occasionally passing through its pages. It's about landowners and peasants, upstairs and downstairs, and the way language bonds, coordinates or divides them. Secondly, it will be patently obvious to all husbands, that the fate of Anton, Count Benoni, rake, gigolo and seducer, was richly deserved, and to certain wives the subject of a tragic but fervent sigh and a private tear.
In the count's favour, he still looked quite lively in death, even after a night lying on a board bed in an Aylsham police cell. Fribbins, Sir Marcus's pallid and craggy butler on the other hand lay rigid with cold on a similar bed in the adjoining cell. Nobody had bothered to cover Anton's body, but Fribbins had a thin grey blanket pulled up right over his head. Perhaps that is what confused the woman who arrived in the Monday dawn to lay-out the body. The sudden uncovering of Fribbins's face was a shock to both of them:
“Gawd'elp'us” say Sergeant Huff'n-Billy Aldis, as a terrible shriek knocks flakes of whitewash off every peeling patch on the charge-room ceiling, “Hew's stick'n pigs, thi'smarn'n?”
“Thas th'ol'witch come ter'dew th'corse,” say Constable Harry Howes, rushing into the cell, “Flat down orn ha'rarse.”
“Seems t'hev quite swoun'd away,” say Huff'n-Billy following him in, “Oi'da fort she'd be usta'rut by now.”
“Ware's th'corse?” say Harry, “Th'cell's empta.”
“Nex'dore,” say Huff'n-Billy, “Thus hare wuz th'prizner.”
“Hev he run?” say Constable Harry, looking under the bed-shelf.
“Blow yer whustle, Boy,” say Huff'n-Billy, “An'blow'ut hard.”
“Wut gud'll thet dew?” say Harry, “Orl a'rus ar'hare a'redda.”
“Hew an'cry, m'Boy,” say Huff'n Billy, “Raise th'town.”
“Oi'd dew betta t'run arta'rim,” say Harry, gallumphing out of the door.
“Now, wut we gawn t'dew abowt yew?” say the sergeant, heaving the woman up onto the bed-shelf and tipping the dregs of the prisoner's water jug over her face.
“Prey hallow me ter dew that,” says Fribbins, in his butlering voice.
“Wut? Blust Boy,” say Huff'n Billy, “Ware yew bin?”
“Hinspectin' the deceased in the daylight,” says Fribbins, “And I can trufulla say I never seen him afore in my life.”
“Yew wuz thar wen he wuz brung in,” say the sergeant.
“Twas lamplight,” say Fribbins “All I saw then wuz a bundle.”
“Oi spuz'so,” say the sergeant, “Dunt meen yew dint dew for'im, now duzz'ut?”
“Sorra Sarge,” say Constable Harry, coming in through the door, “He got away.”
“Ov'corse he did!” say Huff'n Billy, “Frum yew, thet iz.”
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2.11.2 - Draughts and Saddle-Sores
Sir Marcus had eschewed the stagecoach and opted to travel ‘post-haste’ on saddle and four hooves, changing horses at Chelmsford, Colchester, Ipswich, Thwaite, Scole, Tasburgh, Norwich and such intermediate points as seemed appropriate. So it was well after midnight, when he woke the ostler at the Black-Boy's Inn, Aylsham. The ostler woke the landlord, who grunted and woke his wife. She scolded her husband and woke several servants. The servants cursed each other and travellers in general.
Half an hour later, Sir Marcus, who had been sipping brandy while soothing his saddle-worn posterior in front of the banked-up fire in the taproom, was able to take possession of a quart of porter, some cold cuts from the day's roast and a four-poster bed, all to himself. At which point, the ostler's daughter, who had been hovering hopefully ever since toasting the sheets with a warming-pan, muttered a final curse and retired to her attic.
Fribbins, after his rude awakening, had enjoyed a day of sport and leisure. Huff'n-Billy had been keen to continue thrashing him on the draughts board, although the butler's game had been improving steadily. Even Constable Harry, had been sufficiently impressed to consider ways he might lay a bet against the sergeant, then distract him enough for Fribbins to sneak in with a win. If the sports element was playing draughts, then the leisure element was when they locked him away and wandered off to patrol the streets.
Meanwhile, the superintendent had wrapped one piece of evidence in a fold of sacking and tied the other one on the back of his wife's pony and trap. Thus equipped, he had made a round of the Count's most likely trysting places and conducted various interviews. Numerous husbands expressed the wish to have been guilty and instantly identified the horse with the ‘AB’ monogrammed saddle cloth, but failed to either recognise the sabre or to have had the opportunity to perpetrate the deed. The only useful information gained was that the married cousin of one gentleman, visiting from the colonies accompanied by his wife, had left in somewhat of a hurry.
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2.11.3 - Rumours Abounding
Naturally, with such events occurring here and there, news will travel. The mardlers of Little Mardlingham will hear it and pass it about among themselves. One item has just arrived at The Big House, via the tradesmen's entrance:
“Kyor! Blust me,” say Cook, flump'n inta th'kitchen, “Thassa rummun, thet iz.”
“Gawd,” say Tilly, giv'n Tottie a rare owd look, “Shuv sum pudden inyer lugs, cuz she's orf agin.”
“Dunt bother wi'pudden,” say Cook, “Yew'll wuntta hare this.”
“Gawn then,” say Tilly, in har sarky voice, “S'prize me.”
“Dunt know whoy Oi lettya be sa cheeky,” say Cook, “Oi mus'be gitt'n parst'ut.”
“Wuss thet yer parst? Cook,” say Tottie, in har must perlite voice.
“Whack'n scrawny scullions on thar bums,” say Cook.
“Sorra Mumm,” say Tilly, “Dint meen no'disrespec.”
“Wosstha wud, then Mumm?” say Tottie, hopp'n frum wun fut t'tother wi'buth feet, wun at a toime.
“Wull,” say Cook, “Praps Oi shudn't say.”
“OOh! Iz'ut parsonal private?” say Tottie, wi'a gret grin a'tissipearshun.
“NOo,” say Cook, “Thas'bowt th'butler.”
“Fribbins?” say Tottie, “Woss he gorn an'dun?”
“Mista Fribbins, ter yew,” say Cook, “Wudd'd Oi say abowt cheek?”
“Sorra Mumm,” say Tottie, try'n ter contain harsel, “Mista Fribbins.”
“Wull,” say Cook, “He's bin 'rested fer murdr'n a gigglio.”
“Wuss a gigglio, Mumm?” say Tottie, try'n ter be r'specful.
“A bluk,” say Tilly, “Wut git attwin a wife's lillywyte sheets wen har hubby int look'n.”
“Say wut yer meen,” say Cook, “Lillywyte thighs, more like!”
“Are they gornta'ang'im?” say Tilly, look'n rite'orrifried.
“Kin we go'un wotch?” say Tottie, wi'sum glee.
“Fraid nut,” say Cook, “Th'marsta tarn'd up an'settim free.”
“Why'd Sir Marcus hev to gawn dew thet?” say Tilly, “Spyl'n orl th'fun.”
“Praps th'butler dint dew'ut arta orl,” say Cook, “Oi karnt see Fribbins winn'n in a sword fite, wutteva he dew.”
“Blust,” say Tilly, “Yew dint say thet wuz a sawd frite.”
“Wull Oi did now,” say Cook, “On 'ossback an'orl.”
— • —
2.11.4 - Pulling One Off
Yesterday we saw how Tilly is the sort of girl prone to putting one on; Tottie, on the other hand has that unerring instinct for putting one off; Cook just puts up with it. Today we see that whilst the node of mardling up at The Big House is the Servants' Hall, down in the village itself, nothing can beat the Crossed Arms Inn:
“Kyor! Blust me,” say Say Bea, flump'n inta th'taproom, “Thassa rummen, thet iz.”
“Kyor blust yersel!” say Jarge, “Did Oi detect you dew'n a bit a ‘Flump'n’ wen yew come in jus;now?”
“Tew much pudden,” say Bea, “Dew moi bum look big in thus?”
“D'pend wot yew meen by big,” say Stan, “‘Big’ is as good as ‘tasty’ in moi buk.”
“Thankee kindla Sur,” say Bea, nut look'n kindly a'torl.
“Now wut wuzz'ut yew hed t'say?” say Jarge, “Wen Oi hed th'gall ter hinsult yer.”
“Yew cudn't hinsult me if yer tried,” say Bea, “Yew gret owd pussykat, yew.”
“Karnt argue wi'thet sorta logic,” say Stan.
“Look,” say Jarge, grinn'n a'Bea, “Why'unt yew start agin?”
“Orrite,” say Bea, in har ‘stirr'n up a scandal voice’ - “Sir Marcus is back a'th'Big House wi'out hiz lil'Rosie.”
“Now hew's be'n a pussykat,” say Stan, “An'nut a lil'fluffa kitten, nyetha.”
“Wuss Miss Rosamunda dew'n, then?” say Jarge.
“Teark'n th'Smoke by storm,” say Bea, “Dressmakers, milliners, Lunnon Balls and Royal Excepshuns.”
“Excepshuns?” say Stan, “Dun'tchew meen Recepshuns.”
“Wull thet cud hardly be Concepshuns,” say Jarge.
“Orrite, Recepshuns! An'now wi'out har beau,” say Stan, “A yung Leddie orn th'loose.”
“They say she hev a shaparone,” say Bea, “Root'n Toot'n Miss Roberts.”
“Wuss ‘Root'n Toot'n’ meen,” say Stan.
“Hint'chew red none a'them penna-dredfuls abowt th'Wild-West?” say Jarge.
“Seems Miss Roberts hev a big gun,” say Bea, “An'shoot'ut orf at orl th'highwaymen she git ter meet.”
“Sound loike moi sorta gal,” say Jarge, “Wull she be come'n back ter th'willage wi'Miss Rosamunda?”
“Look,” say Stan, “Why'unt yew orl shurrup, an'let th'gal pull me a pint.”
“Rite,” say Jarge “S'long as she pull one orf fer me a'th'same toime.”
— • —
2.11.5 - Charity and Mischief
The atmosphere in the library at The Big House, has been somewhat tense, but now that the vicar is coming to the end of his explanations, the metaphoric clouds seem to be lifting along with the corners of Sir Marcus's mouth:
“A droll tale, Reverend,” says Sir Marcus, “And one still unresolved from the magisterial point of view.”
“Prey, in what way is that?” asks the vicar.
“Why concerning the escape of the guilty,” says Sir Marcus.
“You do not refer to poor Mr. Fribbins, I'm sure,” says the vicar.
“The murderer, Reverend,” exclaims Sir Marcus, “The homicidal husband and his flight from these shores.”
“He has taken ship, then?” asks the vicar, “Flown the coup?”
“The news is that despite telegrams being sent to Yarmouth and Lynn, demanding his arrest on sight,” says Sir Marcus, “That he took to the sea at Wells. His unwilling wife with him and having paid off the fisherman, joined an outbound packet for the Americas.”
“So alls well that ends well,” says the vicar, with a sigh of relief.
“Well, not exactly,” says Sir Marcus, “The murderer has escaped and I have been put to the inconvenience of a post-hast ride from London.”
“My apologies, Sir Marcus, I referred only to the adventures of your villagers,” says the vicar.
“And,” says Sir Marcus, “There's the matter of my bounty to the villagers in granting leave of absences and silver from my purse for their edification. My charity seems to have been somewhat tarnished.”
“When Lady Charity rides,” says the vicar, being unctuous, “The Imps of Mischief may not always be left behind.”
“That may well be the case,” laughs Sir Marcus, thinking of his horse-race with Rosamunda, “But next time make sure they are.”
“You return to the Great Smoke?” asks the vicar.
“By tomorrow's stage,” says Sir Marcus, “Do I carry your greeting to your sister?”
“Of course, Sir Marcus,” says the vicar, “I should be most grateful. Tell her I shall be writing as soon as I have completed composing my Sunday sermon.”
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All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
