‘There’s always the chance it might increase attendance,’ the Reverend retorted, undeterred. ‘And to be fair Percy, the sight of you in your drawers is unlikely to inflame the lust of old Mrs. Morton, let alone the entire parish.’
‘I do wish the Duke was here,’ Percy muttered. ‘He would know what to do, I’m certain.’
Reverend Shackleford sighed. ‘I’m of the same mind, Percy lad. I’ll be surprised if Grace hasn’t already sent him a missive. But if she hasn’t, as soon as we’ve made sure Agnes is safe, I’ll be sending Nicholas a deuced letter myself.’
The two men were silent for a while, the only noise that of Flossy’s snores as the little dog sprawled out on the seat next to Percy. Gradually, the landscape became familiar until, finally, they turned onto the Blackmore Road.
Augustus Shackleford gave a sharp rap on the carriage roof, and as Thomas obediently slowed the horses down, the Reverend leaned out of the window with instructions to drop them off at the bottom of the lane leading to the vicarage.
Being as discreet as before, Thomas refrained from reminding the clergyman that his attire was hardly appropriate for walking a few feet, let alone a hundred yards, and instead gave a stoic nod. One didn’t remain in the Duke of Blackmore’s employ for so many years without recognising that his grace’s extended family were predominantly dicked in the nob.
A mere fifteen minutes later, the two men were clambering down from the carriage. ‘Please inform her grace to expect an extended visit from her stepmother within the hour,’ Augustus Shackleford shouted as the carriage was about to leave. ‘Oh, and ask her to have our robes laundered…’ Thomas favoured the Reverend a flat look before directing the horses towards the Duke’s estate.
‘Come along then, Percy, don’t just stand there, take hold of Flossy. No sense in making a cake of ourselves needlessly.’ The curate opened his mouth, then shut it again with a sigh and followed the Reverend up the lane towards the vicarage.
Just as they reached the boundary, Reverend Shackleford suddenly stopped dead before abruptly dragging Percy behind a large bush.
‘Did you see something, Sir?’ the curate whispered, panic stricken.
The Reverend narrowed his eyes. ‘What time is it Percy?’
The curate frowned, pulling out his pocket watch. ‘Nearly half past the hour, Sir’ he murmured. ‘Why?’
‘Can you hear snoring?’
The curate listened for a second, then shook his head.
‘Neither can I,’ the Reverend declared with a groan. He parted the bush and peered towards the parlour windows – just visible from where the two men were crouching.
‘I don’t understand,’ Percy muttered. ‘Whose snoring?’
‘Agnes’s,’ Augustus Shackleford hissed. ‘She’salwaysasleep on the chaise longue at this time in the afternoon. Regular as clockwork.’ He paused and listened again. ‘Surely you haven’t forgotten her snoring. Like a honking goose.’ He gripped the smaller man’s shoulder. ‘Percy,there’sno snoring.’
The curate frowned and stuck his head through the gap in the bush. ‘Perhaps she’s just not tired.’ The Reverend shook his head. ‘Cake and tea then forty winks. We could be in the middle of the Second Coming, and she’d insist on having her nap.’ He pushed Percy out of the way. ‘Something’s definitely wrong,’ he muttered. ‘That blackguard must have got here before us.’
∞∞∞
‘If the lad you’re lookin’ fer’s a bloody thief, it ain’t the one who were ‘ere last night,’ declared the Green Man’s landlord, once Pettigrew had finished spinning his Canterbury tale.
‘There was a boy in here last night?’ the private detective asked casually.
‘Aye, came in wi the new owner o’ Bovey Manor. The lad din’t ‘ave much to say, but he were pleasant enough. Din’t look like no gull groper.’
‘Bovey Manor you say?’ Pettigrew finished his pint and called for another. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know the new owner’s name would you?’
The landlord shrugged. ‘I don’t rightly know if I’m honest. Place used to belong to the Duke o’ Blackmore.’
Andrew Pettigrew’s ears picked up at the name of Blackmore. But he couldn’t imagine the chit managing to cut the wheedle with a bloody duke.
‘Shackleford,’ another man standing at the bar supplied. ‘’e’s a vicar’s son. You know, that God botherer over Blackmore way wi’ all the daughters.’ The stranger shook his head and looked expectantly at Pettigrew. ‘Kicked up a bleedin’ lark over the years they ‘ave,’ he added helpfully.
‘Can I buy you a tankard of ale?’ the private detective asked, giving in to the inevitable.
The man grinned and tipped his cap.
‘Must’ve ‘ad summat goin’ fer ‘em though, seein’ as the eldest married the Duke o’ Blackmore,’ he said after taking a long draft of his pint. ‘Reckon that’s who the young cull got Bovey Manor from.’
‘I ‘eard one of ‘em got leg shackled to a prince.’
