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“See you later, old boy,” said Hoskins as Dundridge got out of the car and went up to his room in the Handyman Arms. A bath and a meal and he’d probably feel all right. He fetched a towel and went down the passage to the bathroom. When he returned having immersed himself briefly in a lukewarm bath – the geyser still refused to operate at all efficiently – he was feeling better. He had di
“Delighted you could make it,” said Hoskins when Dundridge made his way through the crush to him. “What’s your poison?”
Dundridge said he’d have a gin and tonic. He’d had enough beer for one day. Around him large men shouted about doglegs on the third and water hazards on the fifth. Dundridge felt out of it. Hoskins brought him his drink and introduced him to a Mr Snell. “Glad to meet you, squire,” said Mr Snell heartily from behind a large moustache. “What’s your handicap?” Suppressing his immediate reaction to tell him to mind his own damned business, Dundridge said that as far as he knew he didn’t have one. “A Begi
“These affairs are such a bore,” said the girl. “Are you a great golfer?”
Dundridge said he wasn’t a golfer at all.
“Nor am I. Such a boring game.” She sat down and crossed her legs. They were really very nice legs. “And anyway I don’t like sporty types. I prefer intellectuals.” She smiled at Dundridge. “My name is Sally Boles. What’s yours?”
“Dundridge,” said Dundridge and sat down where he could see more of her legs. Ten minutes later he got another two drinks. Twenty minutes later two more. He was enjoying himself at last.
Miss Boles, he learnt, was visiting her uncle. She came from London too. She worked for a firm of beauty consultants. Dundridge said he could well believe it. She found the country so boring. Dundridge said he did too. He waxed lyrical about the joys of living in London and all the time Miss Boles’ almond eyes smiled seductively at him and her legs crossed and recrossed in the gathering dusk. When Dundridge suggested another drink Miss Boles insisted on getting it.
“It’s my turn,” she said, “and besides I want to powder my nose.” She left Dundridge sitting alone on the terrace in a happy stupor. When she returned with the drinks she was looking thoughtful.
“My uncle’s gone without me,” she said, “I suppose he thought I had gone home already. Would it be too much for you to give me a lift?”
“Of course not. I’d be delighted,” said Dundridge and sipped his drink. It tasted extraordinarily bitter.
“I’m so sorry, I got Campari,” Miss Boles said by way of explanation. Dundridge said it was quite all right. He finished his drink and they wandered off the terrace towards the car park. “It’s been such a lovely evening,” Miss Boles said as she climbed into Dundridge’s car. “You must look me up in London.”
“I’d like to,” said Dundridge. “I’d like to see a lot more of you.”
“That’s a promise,” said Miss Boles.
“You really mean that?”
“Call me Sally,” said Miss Boles and leant against him.
“Oh Sally…” Dundridge began, and suddenly felt quite extraordinarily tired, “… I do want to see so much more of you.”
“You will, my pet, you will,” said Miss Boles and took the car keys out of his inert fingers. Dundridge had passed out.
In London Sir Giles lay back supine on the bed while Mrs Forthby tightened the straps. Occasionally he struggled briefly for the look of the thing and whimpered hoarsely but Mrs Forthby was, at least superficially, implacable. The scenario of Sir Giles’ fantasy called for a brutal implacability and Mrs Forthby did her best. She wasn’t very good, being a kind-hearted soul and not given to tying people up and whipping them, and as a matter of fact she disapproved of corporal punishment on principle. It was largely because she was so progressive that she was prepared to indulge Sir Giles in the first place. “If it gives the poor man pleasure who am I to say him nay,” she told herself. Certainly she had to say nay a great many times to Sir Giles in the throes of his ritual. But if Mrs Forthby wasn’t naturally brutal, with the lights down low it was possible to imagine that she was and she had the merit of being strong and of wearing her costume – there were several – most convincingly. Tonight she was Cat Woman, Miss Dracula, the Cruel Mistress Experimenting On Her Helpless Victim.
“No, no,” whimpered Sir Giles.
“Yes, yes,” insisted Mrs Forthby.
“No, no.”
“Yes, yes.”
Mrs Forthby’s fingers forced his mouth open and inserted the gag. “No…” It was too late. Mrs Forthby inflated the gag and smiled maliciously down at him. Her breasts loomed above him, heavy with menace. Her gloved hands…
Mrs Forthby went into the kitchen and made a pot of tea. While she waited for the kettle to boil she nibbled a digestive biscuit thoughtfully. There were times when she tired of Sir Giles’ desultory attachment and longed for a more permanent arrangement. She would have to speak to him about it. She warmed the teapot, put in two teabags and then a third for the pot and poured the boiling water in. After all she was getting on and she rather fancied the idea of being Lady Lynchwood. She looked round the kitchen. Now where had she put the lid of the teapot?
On the bed Sir Giles struggled with his bonds and was still. He lay back happily exhausted and waited for his cruel mistress. He had to wait a long time. In between spasms of excitement his mind went back to Dundridge. He hoped Hoskins hadn’t made a bloody mess of things. That was the trouble with subordinates, you couldn’t trust them. Sir Giles preferred to attend to matters himself but he had too much to lose to be closely involved in the actual details of this particular operation. First the stick and then the carrot. He wondered how much the carrot would have to be. Two, three, four thousand pounds? Expensive. Add Hoskins’ five thousand. Still, it was worth it. A profit of £150,000 was worth it. So was the prospect of Maud’s fury when she realized that the motorway was coming through the Gorge. Teach the stupid bitch. But where was Mrs Forthby? Why didn’t she come back?
Mrs Forthby finished her cup of tea and poured another. She was getting rather hot in her tight costume. Perhaps she would go and have a bath. She got up and went into the bathroom and turned on the tap before remembering that there was something she still had to do. “Silly old me, talk about forgetful,” she said to herself and picked up the thin cane. The Cruel Mistress Miss Dracula, went through to the bedroom and closed the door.
In his library in the Lodge Blott sat reading Sir Arthur Bryant, but his mind wasn’t on the Age of Elegance. It kept slipping away to Maud, Mrs Wy