There wasn’t time to look for them. Behind him Maud had finally overcome the combined forces of grease and gravity and was coming down the passage promising to strangle him with her own bare hands. Sir Giles waited no longer. He galumphed off in his gumboots down the drive and across the lawn towards the pinetum. Behind him Lady Maud slithered into the downstairs lavatory and emerged with a shotgun. She went to the front door and opened it. Sir Giles was still visible across the lawn. Lady Maud raised the gun and fired. He was out of range but at least she had the satisfaction of knowing that he wouldn’t come near the house again in a hurry. She put the gun back and began to clean up the mess.
Chapter 23
In the Lodge Blott heard the shot and leapt out of bed. Lady Maud’s telephone call had disturbed him. Why should she want to know if the gates were locked? And why had she whispered? Something was up. And with the sound of the shotgun Blott was certain. He dressed and went downstairs with his twelve-bore to the Land-Rover which he had parked just inside the archway. Before getting in he checked the lock on the gate. It was quite secure. Then he drove off up to the Hall and parked outside the front door and went inside.
“It’s me, Blott,” he called into the darkness. “Are you all right?”
From the kitchen there came the sound of someone sliding about and a muffled curse.
“Don’t move,” Lady Maud shouted. “There’s oil everywhere.”
“Oil?” said Blott. Now that he came to think of it there was a stench of oil in the house.
“He’s tried to burn the house down.”
Blott stared into the darkness and promised that if he got the chance he would kill him. “The bastard,” he muttered. Lady Maud slithered down the passage with a squeegee.
“Now listen carefully, Blott,” she said. “I want you to do something for me.”
“Anything,” said Blott gallantly.
“He came in through the pinetum. I’ve locked the gate there so he can’t get out but his car must be up at Wilfrid’s Castle. I want you to drive round there and remove the dis… the thing that goes round.”
“The rotor arm,” said Blott.
“Right,” said Lady Maud. “And while you are about it you might as well put extra locks on both the gates. We must make quite sure that innocent people don’t get into the park. Do you understand?”
Blott smiled in the darkness. He understood.
“I’ll take the rotor arm off the Land-Rover too,” he said.
“A wise precaution,” Lady Maud agreed. “And when you have finished come back here. I don’t think he’ll return tonight but it might be as well to take precautions.”
Blott turned to the door.
“There’s just one other thing,” said Lady Maud, “I don’t think we’ll feed the lions in the morning. They’ll just have to fend for themselves for a day or two.”
“I didn’t intend to,” said Blott and went outside.
Lady Maud sighed happily. It was so nice to have a real man about the house.
At Finch Grove Ivy Bullett-Finch’s feelings were quite the reverse. What was left of the house seemed to be about the man and in any case what was left of Mr Bullett-Finch was real only in a material sense. He had died, as he had lived, concerned for the welfare of his lawn. Dundridge arrived with the Chief Constable in time to pay his last respects. As the firemen carried her husband’s remains out of the cellar, Mrs Bullett-Finch, relieved of the burden of guilt about the oven, vented her feelings on the Controller Motorways Midlands.
“You murderer,” she screamed, “you killed him. You killed him with your awful ball.” She was led away by a policewoman. Dundridge looked balefully at the ball and crane.
“Nonsense,” he said, “I had nothing to do with it.”
“We have been led to understand by your deputy, Mr Hoskins, that you gave orders for random sorties to be made by task forces of demolition experts,” said the Chief Constable. “It would rather appear that they’ve carried out your instructions to the letter.”
“My instructions?” said Dundridge. “I gave no instructions for this house to be demolished. Why should I?”
“We were rather hoping you would be able to tell us,” said the Chief Constable.
“But it’s not even scheduled for demolition.”
“Quite. Nor to the best of my knowledge was the High Street. But since your equipment was used in both cases -”
“It’s not my equipment,” shouted Dundridge, “it belongs to the contractors. If anyone is fucking responsible -”
“I’d be glad if you didn’t use offensive language,” said the Chief Constable. “The situation is unpleasant enough as it is. Local feeling is running high. I think it would be best if you accompanied us to the station.”
“The station? Do you mean the police station?” said Dundridge.
“It’s just for your own protection,” said the Chief Constable. “We don’t want any more accidents tonight, now do we?”
“This is monstrous,” said Dundridge.
“Quite so,” said the Chief Constable. “And now if you’ll just step this way.”
As the police car wound its way slowly through the rubble that littered the High Street, Dundridge could see that Hoskins had been telling the truth when he called Guildstead Carbonell a disaster area. The transformer still smouldered in the grey dawn, the Primitive Methodist Chapel lived up to at least part of its name, while the horribly mishapen relics of a dozen cars crouched beside the glass-strewn pavement. What the iron ball hadn’t done with the aid of the telegraph pole to end Guildstead Carbonell’s reputation for old-world charm, the conflagration at Mr Dugdale’s garage had. Ignited by some unidentifiable public-spirited person who had brought out a paraffin lamp to warn passers-by to watch out for the debris, the blast from the petrol storage tanks had blown in what few windows remained unbroken after Blott’s passing and had set fire to the thatched roofs of several delightful cottages. The fire had spread to a row of almshouses. The simultaneous arrival of fire engines from Worford and Ottertown had added to the chaos. Working with high-pressure hoses in total darkness they had swept a number of inadequately clothed old-age pensioners who had escaped from the almshouses down the street before turning their attention to the Public Library which they had filled with foam. To Dundridge, staring miserably out of the window of the police car, the knowledge that he was held responsible for the catastrophe was intolerable. He wished now that he had never set eyes on South Worfordshire.
“I must have been mad to have come up here,” he thought.
The same thought had already occurred to Sir Giles though in his case the madness he had in mind was in no way metaphorical. As dawn broke over the Park, Sir Giles wrestled with the lock on the gate to the footbridge and tried to imagine how it had got there. It had not been on the gate when he arrived. He wouldn’t have been able to enter if it had. But if the existence of the lock was bad enough, that of the fence was worse and it certainly hadn’t been there when he had last been at the Hall. It was an extremely high fence with large metal brackets at the top and four strands of heavy barbed-wire overhanging the Park so that it was evidently designed to stop people getting out rather than trespassers getting in.