‘I think you told me that, too,’ he said.
‘Ah yes. Did I tell you also that very fortunately I was free last night and today, due to the vagaries of the mind of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed?’
‘You did, Denton, yes.’ He was beginning to wonder for how long he could stand this sour reek — which was totally at odds with the pristine condition of the hallway with its immaculate carpet and rose-pink paintwork.
‘Yes!’ Scroope said, suddenly becoming very animated. ‘She saw it on the Testudines chat group on WhatsApp, and felt she had to go for them immediately — so she literally jumped in a taxi to Lewes Station to catch a train to Newcastle.’
Looking again at the sinister glare from the bust, Grace responded distractedly, ‘I’m sorry — Testudines?’
‘Ah yes, Roy. Astrochelys — they’re a critically endangered genus of the tortoise family Testudinidae. Kelly was so very excited to discover that a pair in England had successfully mated and produced offspring.’
‘Your wife has gone to Newcastle to buy tortoises?’
Scroope nodded animatedly.
And now Grace understood the smell. And to his chagrin understood it even more when Scroope ushered him into the stiflingly warm sitting room, one wall of which was entirely taken up with tiers of glass-fronted cages, each containing tortoises of varying sizes and patterned shells. There was a three-piece suite filling most of the room, a large television and a glass-topped coffee table, with a number of — he hoped just stuffed — tortoises displayed beneath.
The smell was even more unbearable.
‘In the absence of Her Ladyship it falls to me to offer my former boss light refreshments. Tea or coffee?’
Grace cringed inwardly at this crass remark. He could have murdered a coffee but he didn’t want to do anything that would prolong his stay in this stinking steam-bath of a room one second longer than necessary. ‘I’m fine, Denton, but thank you for offering.’ He smiled. ‘Tortoises?’
‘Kelly breeds them.’
‘OK.’
‘We actually met on a Testudinophiles dating website.’
In response to his frown, Scroope said, ‘Tortoise lovers.’
And suddenly Grace realized what it was about Scroope’s face. It actually wasn’t so much an aardvark he reminded him of, it was a tortoise. The long nose, sagacious eyes, slow and measured movements.
Grace momentarily lost focus on the reason he was here, as he tried to conjure up the image of a woman who might search out a life partner on a tortoise lovers’ website. Then he saw the answer on a shelf above the fake coal fireplace on the wall opposite him.
It was a framed wedding photograph of Scroope and a woman who was far more attractive than he had imagined, striking eyes and long fair hair. The photo reminded him of something Cleo was fond of saying, when she’d returned home after a particularly mismatched couple had come for the viewing of a deceased loved one at the mortuary. There’s someone out there for everyone.
But how in God’s name, Grace wondered, had this guy Scroope netted such a nice-looking wife? And, equally mystifying at this moment, why tortoises?
He asked the question. And Scroope raised a finger in the air, looking very animated, as if someone had just plugged him in and switched him on. ‘Well, I can tell you that, Roy. Most people go for dogs — or cats. But dogs have a lifespan of what — nine years for a Great Dane, twelve for a mid-size dog like a Labrador and fifteen, seventeen at the outside, for most smaller dogs — with the vet bills to accompany that great age. What this means is the heartbreak you are going to experience. Tortoises, by contrast, live to between one hundred and one hundred and fifty years.’
Grace nodded, unsure whether he was starting to get acclimatized to the smell or was about to throw up. ‘And do tortoises give you the same kind of unconditional love that dogs do? Or the affection of cats?’
‘Well, sir, that would depend on which side of the despatch box you rest your feet. Tortoises are engaging creatures — if you allow yourself to become immersed in their world. And of course they don’t moult and give you hay fever.’ He raised a finger in the air, with a look of triumph.
Grace nodded.
Scroope continued, almost evangelically. ‘Tortoises won’t of course give you the affection that dogs will. But they are low-maintenance — they don’t need walking, they won’t break your heart by dying after too short a life. Their long lifespan gives you both a sense of continuity and a connection to the past. And they have a wonderfully calming demeanour. Personally, I like to think that long after I’m gone, these creatures will still be here.’ He shrugged. ‘But you haven’t come here to talk about tortoises, Roy. You want to know what I’ve managed to decipher so far.’
Grace nodded again. ‘Yes. Maybe we can talk more about tortoises some other time.’
55
Saturday 25 November 2023
Geoffrey Bailey, small, reedy, immaculately dressed, stood in freezing cold wind, in the darkness outside the Garden Entrance to the West Wing of Buckingham Palace. There was just the faintest glow of light from a handful of windows — The King’s energy-saving policies were being scrupulously implemented.
As forecast, the sunny weather had ended abruptly this afternoon. The temperature had plunged further, and the rain was chucking it down as if it had been saving up to do this for days. It felt and sounded like the blasts of shotgun pellets on his umbrella, which he was struggling with in the fierce, gusting wind — and the rain also came sideways at him beneath it, drenching his trousers.
He looked at his watch, the very showy Bulgari that one of his lovers had bought him recently, and cursed, because fancy though it was, he couldn’t see the dial to tell the time in the dark. Instead, he checked his phone. Ten minutes late. His Gucci loafers were sodden.
Was this going to be a no-show?
A sudden gust, stronger than all the others, turned his umbrella inside out.
‘Shit!’ he yelled, as the rain pelted his head and he struggled to get the damned thing working again.
‘Y’all right?’ A Geordie voice spoke out of the darkness.
‘Where have you been? You said 7 p.m. sharp.’ Bailey’s voice was petulant, but he knew he held all four aces in his hand. ‘I’m bloody freezing.’
‘Yeah, well at least you got a brolly. I’m on lates tonight — I’ve got to patrol the grounds without one and I’ll be freezing and sodden all evening. I’ll get you out of the cold in a few minutes. So just keep your hair on, sweet cheeks, don’t want your wig flying off in this hooley, do we?’
‘I do NOT wear a wig.’
‘Oh right, it just looks like one, does it?’
Ignoring the comment, too cold and wet to banter, Geoffrey Bailey said, ‘You’ve got my medal?’
‘Yeah,’ Smoke said. ‘I’ve got your medal. Sir Tommy felt bad you’d been overlooked and got it sanctioned. Because he respects you, like all the Royal Household does.’
‘I’ve done over fifteen years of loyal and faithful service. It’s no more than I deserve,’ Geoffrey Bailey opined.
‘Oh no, you deserve much more. So much more! Everyone knows that.’
‘Really?’ He preened at the unexpected compliment.
‘Oh yes,’ Jon Smoke replied. The rain was drenching him, plastering his close-cropped hair to his head. But his police uniform with its heavy attachments of torch, taser, baton and phone, in addition to the weight of his stab vest, kept some of it at bay. However, the rain wasn’t his problem. This little shit of a footman, Geoffrey Bailey, was.
He wouldn’t be for much longer.
‘Let’s see it then!’