Ancestral Vices by Tom Sharpe Page A

deep freeze and see how far it gets you. And don’t believe me. Go and ask the bleeding chef and see for yourself.’
    Leaving the bewildered woman he stalked back to Lord Petrefact’s room.
    Mrs Billington-Wall tramped downstairs and presently was engaged in a frantic attempt to elicit from the contract chef exactly what had happened the previous night. The process wasn’t helped by the chef’s Italian origin, the confusion of consonants, the insult to his profession implicit in Croxley’s insistence that he turn a full-grown pig into a baby one by truncating the bloodything, and now Mrs Billington-Wall’s peculiar line of questioning.
    ‘How should I know what for he wanted it that way? Is not my business. If he say cut pig I cut pig. So he likes little pigs. Is all right with me.’
    It wasn’t all right with Mrs Billington-Wall. ‘How utterly revolting. I’ve never heard anything so disgusting in my life.’
    The chef shrugged philosophically. ‘Not disgusting. Is peculiar I admit but English milords is known for being . . . how you say . . .?’
    ‘Disgusting,’ said Mrs Billington-Wall adamantly.
    ‘Eccentric,’ said the chef finally finding the word he was after.
    ‘Well, you may think it eccentric but as far as I’m concerned the whole thing is beyond description, repulsive.’
    She turned to leave the kitchen when a fresh thought struck her. ‘And what did you do with the . . . er . . . the thing afterwards?’ she enquired, now quite convinced that Croxley’s advice had been sensible.
    ‘Afterwards?’ said the chef. ‘So his lordship didn’t like it we weren’t going to waste it. We ate it, of course.’
    For one terrible moment Mrs Billington-Wall stared at the chef with a look of such incredulous revulsion that he felt called upon to amplify his statement.
    ‘Was very good. The crackling . . .’
    But Mrs Billington-Wall had gone. There were limits to her sense of what was right and proper and even saneand what she had just heard . . . As she dashed from the kitchen fighting to keep her gorge down she knew one thing absolutely. The police must on no account be allowed to investigate the horrible sequence of events that had taken place at Fawcett House.

7
    For once her views and those of Lord Petrefact could be said to coincide. His reaction to Croxley’s announcement that the police were on their way had been so violent that he was out of bed and almost on his feet before he realized the lack of a wheelchair.
    ‘I’ll have the law on the bitch,’ he yelled, ‘so help me God I’ll . . .’
    Croxley helped him off the floor and back into bed before pointing out that the trouble with the police was that, colloquially speaking, they were the law and in any case tended to represent it. Lord Petrefact wasn’t in the mood for fine distinctions.
    ‘I know that, you moron. I don’t mean that sort of law. I mean my sort.’
    ‘Yours being the sort with teeth to it,’ said Croxley. ‘I’ve always been interested in the dichotomy between civil law and . . .’
    ‘Dichotomy?’ yelled Lord Petrefact. ‘If you so much as mention that word again after serving up that fucking dichotomized pig last night I’ll . . .’ He ran out of threats and lay breathing heavily. ‘And get me another bleeding wheelchair.’
    Croxley considered the matter. It was certainly moreto his liking than discussions about pigs. ‘We’ve got a problem there,’ he said finally.
    Lord Petrefact took his own pulse and tried to keep calm. ‘Of course we’ve got a problem,’ he spluttered at last, ‘that’s why I need another fucking wheelchair.’
    ‘It’s Sunday.’
    Lord Petrefact stared at him dementedly. ‘Sunday? What the hell has Sunday got to do with it?’
    ‘For one thing the shops aren’t open and for another even if they were I doubt if the local Post Office runs to motorized invalid chairs. I mean this isn’t London . . .’
    ‘London?’ yelled Lord Petrefact, disregarding the intimations