Ancestral Vices by Tom Sharpe Page B

of his pulse. ‘Of course it isn’t London. Any fool knows that. It’s the back of bleeding beyond. That doesn’t mean you can’t phone Harrods or some place and tell them to send one in by helicopter.’
    ‘Some place being possibly the Galapagos Islands?’ said Croxley, deciding to chance his arm.
    Lord Petrefact stared at him wildly but said nothing. Croxley was evidently trying to kill him. ‘Never mind where. Just get me one.’
    ‘I’ll do my best, but I don’t suppose it will arrive before the police and there’s Yapp to consider. I mean if they find him locked in the nursery I don’t know what they’re going to think or he to say.’
    Lord Petrefact did, and could hardly find words. ‘You don’t mean to say he’s . . .’ Croxley nodded.
    ‘But I told you to let him out. I told you I wanted to see the swine.’
    ‘It was a little difficult to persuade Mrs Billington-Wall that letting him out was an advisable course of action. She seemed to think . . .’
    ‘Seemed? That loathsome creature has no right to think. She shouldn’t even have the fucking vote in my opinion. And when I say I want him out . . . Go and get the bastard, Croxley, go and get him. And if that woman gets in your way you have my permission to use the utmost physical force. Kick the cow where it hurts.’
    ‘Definitely,’ said Croxley, and left the room.
*
    But downstairs Mrs Billington-Wall was too engaged in defending her own reputation against the consequences of a police enquiry to be bothered about Yapp. The Sergeant and two constables who had driven over had already entered the hall before she could stop them.
    ‘And what brings you here, Sergeant?’ she asked with an unfortunate attempt to look surprised.
    ‘You did, Mrs Billington-Wall.’
    ‘I did?’
    ‘Yes,’ said the Sergeant. ‘If you remember, you phoned the station and said there’d been an affray . . .’
    Mrs Billington-Wall put a supposedly startled hand to her cultured pearls. ‘You must be mistaken. I assure you I . . .’ She drained off. The Sergeant was studying the crumpled wheelchair and the bloodstains on the marble floor.
    ‘What’s more, by the look of things you weren’t faroff,’ continued the Sergeant and took out his notebook. ‘One badly damaged invalid chair, one large blood patch, one deal table . . .’
    ‘Oak,’ said Mrs Billington-Wall involuntarily.
    ‘All right, one oak table with leg missing . . . And what’s that horrible pong?’
    ‘Pong?’
    ‘Smell, then.’
    ‘I really can’t think,’ said Mrs Billington-Wall truthfully.
    ‘I can,’ said the Sergeant, and ordering a constable to stand guard by the wheelchair, the bloodstain and the oak table, followed his nose.
    ‘His Lordship will take great exception to your intrusion,’ said Mrs Billington-Wall, trying to pull rank, but the Sergeant was not to be deterred.
    ‘Not the only thing he’ll take exception to,’ he said, ‘I can’t say I like the look of things and as for that niff . . .’ He took out a handkerchief and covered his nose. ‘I think we’ll have a look down this corridor,’ he mumbled.
    Mrs Billington-Wall barred his way. ‘You have absolutely no right to enter private premises without permission,’ she said staunchly.
    ‘Which, since you invited us here in the first place, I can only presume has been given,’ said the Sergeant.
    ‘But I keep telling you I didn’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    ‘Nor do I,’ said the Sergeant, ‘but I’m going to find out.’ And pushing past her he headed down the foetidcorridor. As he opened the shattered baize door there was no doubt in his mind that Mrs Billington-Wall had not been exaggerating when she had stated there had been an affray in Fawcett House. If anything she had been understating the case.
    ‘One smashed door,’ he noted as he stepped over the wreckage, ‘one soiled mat . . .’
    ‘One Shirvan rug,’ said Mrs Billington-Wall. ‘It’s an extremely fine