“-This is liberty-hall,
gentlemen. You may do just as you please
here.”
Oliver Goldsmith She Stoops To Conquer
“Enuff! I heff enuff!”
The young woman in the tangerine hot
pants tossed her waist-length blonde hair and pouted theatrically.
“I go back to Oslo. I tell my Papa…”
“Come now my dear, I’m sure there’s no
need for that.”
The Earl of Cley, a large man, well
advanced in his fifties, strode across the patio and splashed out two glasses
of Pimms and lemonade from a brimming jug on a well-stocked drinks table.
Bright August sunshine illuminated his rather startling tangle of auburn hair.
The au pair looked disdainfully at the huge grubby feet protruding beneath his
lime green kaftan. Reluctantly, she took a glass, sipped suspiciously and
pursed her frosted peach lips.
“I still go!”
“Have a cordial and do chill out,
Freya. You know what Psyche says about negative vibes.”
The blonde snorted and rolled her
eyes. Naughtily, she placed one hand on her hip and raised her Pimms
aloft in an affected gesture. Slyly, she began to imitate an aristocratic
accent.
“That is because I am a Scorpio. I
am badddddddd…”
“And that, my dear, is the attraction.
Did you know that my Great Uncle Sebastian…”
The Earl leapt round the drinks table
like a flash of lightning and grasped Freya to his bosom. He grasped thin air.
“You’ll need to grease your lightneenng
to catch me, you old goat!”
Cley tried the other direction. Freya
didn’t spill a drop of her Pimms as she effortlessly kept ahead of the
circumambulatory Earl.
“Round and round and round we go!”
After several circuits the Earl leaned
heavily on the table and wheezed.
“Take pity on a poor old man. Stand your
ground and take it like a Norwegian…”
“Like a Norwegian what, Grandpa Earl?”
“Oh, never mind.” Cley refilled his
glass and collapsed into a huge wicker chair. “Psyche will know. She knows
everything. Whether it’s a fact or not,” he finished sotto voce.
“Good, good, good vibrations…” trilled
Freya, gyrating her tangerine behind just out of reach of Cley’s questing
hands.
Cley kept his questing hands firmly
around the cold glass. He was still breathing heavily.
“My chasing days are over. I need a pair
of roller skates. Or a lasso.” Cley sat upright and eyed the bell pull. “Now
there’s an idea!”
“You rang?”
A sepulchral voice issued from the
French doors leading to the conservatory. The Earl jumped. Psyche’s
concept of domestic help had involved hiring a local clairvoyant as a butler
and the result was just a little too Addams Family for his taste. Having
one’s basic needs pre-empted was somewhat disconcerting and the old git rarely
got it right. Ebenezer Thrumm creaked onto the patio, a gaunt old man
with navy blue shadows under his beady eyes. His ancient suit smelled
strongly of mothballs. The au pair held her nose.
“Pooh! Worse than week-old
lutefisk!”
Freya wriggled her nubile Scandinavian
bottom again and the butler’s reptilian eyes slid sideways. A drop of
spittle moistened his thin grey lips. Suddenly remembering something, he
rummaged inside his jacket and retrieved a slightly crumpled manila
envelope.
“The post, sir.”
Cley’s broad purplish nose wrinkled in
disdain.
“That missive looks horribly
official. Go on then – tell me what’s inside, without opening it.”
The butler closed his eyes. His
face adopted a strained expression and he moaned softly. The Earl grinned
and took another deep draught of his Pimms.
“Gas bill? Going to cut us off
again, are they?”
“I see…”
“Not the rates, I hope. I told
those bastards at the council to cease their impertinence. Asking me
for money to live in my own house. The nerve! ”
“I see …”
“Get on with it man!”
Thrumm screwed his bony features into a
climax of concentration, then let out a long wheezy sigh.
“I see a gentleman in a brown
suit. He is carrying a clipboard. An inspector, perhaps.”
Cley snorted and smacked the au pair’s
behind.
“Hah! Let him inspect this!
And these, if he has a mind to…”
He reached up to fondle Frey’s pert
little breasts. Quite a change had come upon the Norwegian girl.
Giggling, she slid onto his vast, well-padded lap and put her arms about his
neck.
“Suck my nipples, Grandpa Earl.
Make me feel good and I won’t tell my Papa about the cucumber.”
“Tell your Papa to get his own cucumber.
Oh, I see what you mean. Well, it was very tasty after it was marinaded.”
Cough, cough.
“You choked, Thrumm?”
“Indeed sir. I hear the door knocker.”
”I see a knocker making an escape!”
Cley’s breathing quickened as he lifted
up Freya’s fine cheesecloth top to reveal a luscious pink-tipped breast.
Bra-burning was de rigeur at Liberty Hall, though the Earl was anything but a
feminist. Freya giggled and slipped a hand under her bottom.
Thrumm muttered and turned away. He
placed the unopened letter on the drinks table.
“Bring me the clipboard! Dispose of the
inspector as you see fit!”
Thrumm muttered again under his breath
on the way out. The Earl of Cley turned his undivided attention to the au pair
snuggled on his lap. He lifted her bare orb to his mouth.
“Mmm!” murmured Freya, her eyes closing
and her hand working in the Earl’s lap.
Cley deftly took Freya’s nipple between
his lips. He held it gently. His tongue barely touched the sensitive flesh.
Freya shuddered and took the Earl’s head in her spare hand.
Now Cley took as much of Freya’s breast
into his mouth as he could and sucked hard, his tongue suddenly lashing her
tender nipple. Freya arched her back and thrust herself convulsively at the
Earl’s face.
“Ooh, yes! Yes please, Grandpa Earl!”
Cley placed one fingertip on the button
of Freya’s hot pants, as if ringing a doorbell. He stilled, no longer sucking
but holding Freya’s breast captive and silent. Freya tensed and whimpered, her
whole body electrified with desire. Her long suntanned thighs flexed
convulsively as she pushed her hips towards Cley’s teasing hand.
The Earl slowly drew his finger down the
crotch of the young woman’s hot pants. With each inch Freya’s back arched
further and her eyes squeezed tighter. The Earl slowed almost to nothing. He
stopped where Freya’s sex throbbed against the gaudy material. Gently, ever so
gently, he pressed his finger toward warmth. Freya squirmed hard then screamed
and screamed again. At last she collapsed into Cley’s arms.
“That was a good one, my beauty! When
you come you come!”
“Oh yes, Grandpa Earl. Oi be a good
girl, don’t Oi?”
Freya’s impression of a West Country
serving wench left little to be desired. Cley made a mental note to find her a
low-bodiced dress and a milk pail.
“Grandpa Earl?” inquired Freya coyly.
The Earl smiled. He knew this game.
“Grandpa Earl? May I play with your
boonny wabbit?”
Freya slipped off his lap and onto her
knees beside the Earl. He slowly lifted his kaftan. He was naked beneath it.
Freya’s eyes widened and she pressed a finger to her lips.
“Ooh, Grandpa Earl! Boonny wabbit has
come out to play with me! May I give boonny wabbit a kiss, Grandpa Earl?”
“You may give bunny rabbit a kiss,” said
the Earl. “You may give him lots of kisses.”
Freya lowered her mouth to the Earl’s
impressive bunny rabbit. She pursed her lips and touched them to his waiting
tip. Cley leaned back in the wicker chair with an expectant smile. Freya’s
tongue flicked out.
“Cley! Where the blazes are you, Cley?
Why the devil is a man locked in the cloakroom? He’s moaning that his clipboard
has been taken away from him. What is this - a clipboard fetish? Why haven’t I
tried it?”
“Psyche, my love!”
The Earl groaned inwardly. His
full nine inches of turgid taproot nudged the dewy, peach frosted lips of the
twenty year old, then slowly made a dignified descent. Freya looked surly
as a tall willowy creature in scarlet palazzo pants strode onto the patio.
Psyche smiled knowingly, as she came upon her husband and the au pair, caught
in flagrante.
“Aha! The intense urge of
Scorpio! Such a perfect match for the bottomless appetite of Taurus the
Bull. Run along now Freya, there’s ironing to be done.”
The au pair scowled, a steely glint in
her deep blue eyes. Cley watched her tight, tangerine-clad bottom squirm
its way across the patio, jiggling in time to the clopping of her
platform-soled boots. His cock twitched appreciatively then collapsed.
Psyche was in one of her moods. She stood before him, hands on hips, her
glorious mass of raven curls swept up in a style reminiscent of a Greek
goddess. Huge silver hoops dangled from her ears. A myriad of
Indian bracelets clinked on her wrists. The Earl had to admit that his
wife was magnificent. She was also as nutty as a fruitcake.
“So?”
“A needle pulling thread?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Randolph. I want to know why there’s a
man locked in the downstairs cloakroom!”
Cley arranged his kaftan to cover his
dignity. Something about the word “clipboard” jogged a memory in his
booze-addled brain.
“Don’t tell me Thrumm got it right for
once.”
Psyche clapped her hands to an
accompaniment of tiny tinkling bells.
“Did he make a prediction?”
The Earl sighed.
“The old fool said, ‘I see a gentleman
in a brown suit. He is carrying a clipboard. An inspector,
perhaps.’ I assume that for once his second sight was focused on the right
planet and the body in the cloakroom suffering clipboard-withdrawal symptoms is
indeed an inspector of some sort.”
“Well – what sort of inspector? Tax,
bus, police, drains? Why one earth should anyone want to inspect our drains? Or
does he want to crawl all the way through them to the septic tank with a little
brush?”
“I have no idea, my love. Thrumm didn’t
get that far. It was one of those vague predictions like, ‘You will meet a tall
dark stranger at some point in the next thirty-five years’.”
The Countess dismissed the mysterious
inspector from her mind.
“Send Freya to him with some sandwiches
and tell her to interrogate him. Talking of that Scandinavian harlot, did she
finish what she started?”
“No, my love. She was rudely interrupted
just as she was getting into her flow…”
Psyche scowled.
“That girl never finishes a job. Must be
endemic to her generation. The under-gardener loses all concentration once he’s
sprayed the first row of cauliflowers. Lift up your frock or you’ll be at it
all day.”
The Earl flinched.
“No, no, my dear, I can complete the job
myself…”
“Nonsense, Cley. You know you’ll take
for ever over it and none of your chores will get done. Now give it to me and
you’ll be done in a jiffy.”
Psyche kneeled and whipped the Earl’s
kaftan above his waist. She took a firm grip on his wilted masterpiece. Even
limp it comfortably filled her hand. With a determined expression on her thin
face she started a regular pumping.
“Come along, Randolph! I don’t have all day!”
Despite himself Cley felt his erection
grow in his wife’s hand. She knew exactly how to bring him to ejaculation with
the minimum expenditure of time and effort. Her spare hand found his testicles
and gently squeezed. Cley groaned.
“Here we go, what a brave lad! Just a
couple more…”
Cley’s cock pulsed under the pressure.
He gripped the arms of the chair and lifted himself half out of it. His wife’s
knowing grip shifted to the tip of his engorged member and began a
figure-of-eight motion.
“Mmmyarghhhhhh…!!!!!!”
The contents of his frustrated balls
shot into the air then fell back onto his thighs and the Countess’ encircling
hand. She gave three more pumps for good measure and let go. She wiped her hand
on his hairy thigh and stood up
“Do clean yourself up, there’s a good
boy. You look a frightful mess.”
The Earl dabbed at himself with his
kaftan as he caught his breath.
“Now off you go and fiddle the books. We
need a story of some kind for the bank manager chappie before the next payment
is due.”
Psyche dusted her knees and turned to
go.
“What the blood and stomach pills…”
A mighty CRASH!!! issued from the depths
of the house. The pitcher of Pimms toppled to the tiled patio. Cley
groaned.
“Cook’s not messing around with the
pressure cooker again, is she? Last time, she just about blew the ruddy
roof off. I thought the flipping Russkies had pushed the button down…”
His lady wife frowned and strode off to
investigate. The explosion didn’t seem to originate in the kitchen.
A thick pall of dust filled the main entrance hall, like a sandstorm scouring
the Sahara, accompanied by a strange muffled
thumping sound. Staunchly, Psyche wrapped a diaphanous scarf about her
nose and mouth and made her way through the cloud. It seemed the ruckus
came from the downstairs cloakroom. As she turned the door handle, a
dreadful long drawn out moan issued from the darkened room. Lady Cley
called into the dust drenched gloom.
“Ah yes, an Inspector calls. Has
he already fallen foul of the Banshee of Liberty Hall? Is anyone there?”
There was a vague spluttering sound,
punctuated by several flaccid thumps. Psyche edged into the cloakroom.
“I heff enufffff!”
“Oooohhhh…”
“Good heavens! Is that
Freya? What on earth?”
The dust cloud parted just long enough
for Lady Cley to witness a remarkable sight. A large mahogany dresser had
somehow managed to topple forwards onto the cloakroom floor. Two pairs of
feet wriggled helplessly beneath its weight. Psyche recognised the au
pair’s platform boots and Thrumm’s ancient brogues.
“Don’t tell me Scorpio tried to pin down
Pisces in the closet? My dear, to catch the Fish, you need a bottle of
bubbly, floating candles and some nice soothing music in the background.
Try Debussy, not brute force. If you want to butt, find a Ram…”
An incensed squawk emanated from beneath
the dresser and the boots drummed their heels indignantly.
“This dirty old man? Get me
out! I tell my Papa…”
The brogues wilted visibly. A sad
wheezing cough shook the dresser, then a faint croaking ensued:
“Madam, there’s a strange man at large
in Liberty Hall. The person I prophesied. We tried to corner him
but he managed to elude capture.”
Psyche smirked.
“So I see. Well, don’t worry, I’ll
get Jinks the handyman to lift it off in a jiff. You can both move your
toes and that’s a good sign. Talking of which, I wonder what sign the
Inspector is. Oh, my kingdom for a Virgo!”
“You’ll be lucky to find a Virgo in this kingdom, my dear.” Cley peered over
her shoulder at the mayhem.
“You know perfectly well what I mean.
Now call Jinks and get after that inspector!”
Cley sighed and turned away, his dreams of
what to do with Freya’s captive legs in abeyance. He did not forget though. The
Cleys have good memories.
“JINKKKKKKS!”
Long years on the polo field had taught
the Earl the merits and technique of a fog-horn bellow.
“JINKKKKKKS!”
“Coming, my Lord!”
A baritone voice emanated from the
basement. It was followed by a tall young man in overalls, a wide tool belt
round his slim waist. A day’s dark stubble masked his square-jawed face and
deep tan. A wayward lock of dark hair fell over his forehead. He leaned
negligently on the door jamb. The handyman’s given name was Seth.
“Yes, my Lord?”
Lady Cley frowned.
“Stop lolling around and lift that
wardrobe. Thrumm is having hysterics and Freya is having kittens.”
“Certainly, my Lady.”
Jinks brushed past the Countess and bent
down to grip the wardrobe. He flexed his muscles quite unnecessarily and lifted
the weighty old piece of furniture back to the vertical.
“All done, my Lady.”
He took Freya’s hand and effortlessly
lifted her to her feet. She passed the back of a hand across her brow and
sagged against his chest.
“Mah hero!”
“Well then, my dear, how about my
reward?” Jinks smoothed an imaginary moustache with one finger.
Cley snorted.
“The milk boy won’t be here until
tomorrow. You’ll have to ply your own reward until then. Now get back to fixing
that boiler.”
“And which boiler would that be then,
sweetie?” pouted Jinks with a sideways glance at Lady Cley. He minced to the
basement stairs.
“Stop mincing, you stupid man! You know
perfectly well you can walk properly if you put your mind to it. If it weren’t
for celestial balance I wouldn’t let a Libran in the house,” Psyche grumbled
Freya waggled her bottom derisively at
the handyman. She sang what sounded like an obscene limerick in Norwegian.
Thrumm climbed laboriously to his feet
and looked wistfully after the retreating form of Jinks. When Jinks had
disappeared he turned his yearning eye on Freya.
“Thrumm! Stop mooning and catch the
Inspector! He can’t have got far.”
A glint appeared in Thrumm’s eye.
“Yes, my lady. It was the inspector who pushed
the wardrobe onto young Miss Freya and I. May
I have permission to loose the dogs?”
Psyche frowned.
“I think not. I’m sure the gentleman concerned didn’t
intend to pin you to the cloakroom floor.
Accidents will happen. Besides,
we haven’t discovered what he’s here to inspect yet. I’m sure we don’t want to go to all that
trouble if it’s just the drains. Thrumm
– fetch the tarot cards! Let’s see what
they have to say about our inspector’s mission.”
The butler hobbled off towards the
library, brushing off his dusty old trousers with the palms of his hands. Freya smirked.
“Better luck next time, Meester
Inspector. Squash that nastee old man as
flat as a pannakoke! He’s always staring
at my boobies.”
“And who wouldn’t, my dear?”
Cley admired the au pair’s perfect
little upturned breasts. Her nipples
were hard as acorns beneath the soiled cheesecloth top. All he had to do was reach across, flip up
the flimsy material and feast on the perky beauties. They needed kissing better after their recent
ordeal. His cock sprang to attention for
the third time that day, jauntily pushing out the front of his kaftan. Proud of his outstanding virility, he turned
himself a little to one side, offering Freya the full effect of his manhood in
profile. Much to his chagrin, the young
woman giggled.
“Knockwurst in a tent! Very funny!”
Psyche clapped her hands as the butler
creaked into the cloakroom bearing a small wooden box.
“Ah, here are my cards! Now, the Universe will reveal all…”
Cley pointed his protuberance at the au
pair and winked. She pretended not to
notice. Lady Cley opened the little box
and took out a pack of cards wrapped in a fine silk cloth. Deftly, she shuffled, her striking features
arranged in an expression of perfect composure.
Thrumm closed his eyes and moaned softly. Freya wetted her lips with the tip of her
tongue and made lascivious faces at Cley.
Psyche squatted on the parquet and dealt the brightly colored cards onto
the floor.
“Hah!
First we have the Moon. Deception – perhaps in the guise of a flighty
female (she glared at Freya). Then the
Lovers. That’s
self-explanatory. And finally, the Hermit.
How very odd. One who hides
himself away. Our elusive Inspector is a
quiet man, unobtrusive, studious. A
classic Virgo. His mission involves
secrecy and partnership, possibly of an intimate, even clandestine variety.”
Cley guffawed.
“It’s a bit late in our marriage to send
a private investigator after me, my dear!
Mea culpa! Guilty as charged!”
His wife ignored him. She stared at the
cards. A myriad of tiny cogs could be imagined clicking away in the confines of
her finely coiffed head.
Thrumm shuddered and sighed.
“An elegant reading, your Ladyship. Might I add that the tarot symbols are always
open to a variety of interpretations and therefore that the Moon may indeed be related to water and
thus to the drains.”
Cley snorted.
“Bloody Victorian khazis. So it’s an undercover lover or an undercover
plumber. Take your pick, ladies! Both would have their uses.”
“Cough.”
“What?”
“Cough, my Lord.”
Cley tapped his foot.
“Cough what, Thrumm?”
“Cough the inspector is escaping, my
Lord.”
“Well, stop coughing and get in the
offing, Thrumm! Tally ho! The inspector must not get over the wire before we
inspect him. Switch on the minefield! Call out the air force! And when you get
back, count the spoons.”
Thrumm gave what could only be described
as a wolfish grin. Lady Cley sighed.
“Thrumm, the moon is waxing but not yet
full. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Set off in an orderly fashion and bring the
inspector back in one piece. A nice
intact piece.”
Thrumm’s face fell as he turned to obey
his mistress’s command. His finger nails seemed to contract and his face fell
into itself as though his dentures had melted. He closed the door softly behind
him.
Lady Cley looked at her husband.
“Climb out of your world of fantasy, Cley.
You are not in your Spitfire now. The inspector is probably British, or at
least neutral, and out of bounds for nastiness. Now do something useful while I
see to the feng shui in the library.”
She swept out of the room leaving the
Earl and Freya eying each other. They took a step closer, the Earl’s erection
back to full glory.
“And no hanky panky!” Psyche lived up to
her name with a cry from half way down the hall.
“Wait until she’s out of range,”
whispered Cley. Freya giggled. They
could play the hanky panky game all day (and frequently did). The Earl grasped the au pair’s tangerine-clad
buttocks and squeezed, as if testing fruit.
Psyche was wrong about the Spitfire.
Cley really didn’t give a fig about inspectors, so long as his creature
comforts were at hand. Or in hand… The Winston Churchill act was but a
smokescreen, a hareng rouge to divert the household. At one with the world, the Earl bent to sniff
the au pair’s décolletage.
“Mmm.
Fruity.”
The young woman smelled of sweet ripe
sex and Aqua Manda, a popular orangey kind of scent. What more could an old reprobate desire
before tea? Cley was just about to
wrestle the girl to the parquet for another round when there was a second
reverberating thud, this time from the floor above, followed by a piercing
shriek. Cley and Freya looked up at the cloakroom ceiling. A few fragments of loose plaster drifted down
and landed on the abandoned tarot cards, causing a flaky white cloud to obscure
the Moon. The Hermit looked as if he had
a stylish new Afro hairstyle. Freya
sniggered.
“Funkee!”
Cley opened his eyes wide in mock alarm.
“It’s an omen, dear girl. Thrumm’s going to change his image and go for
a perm.”
Several pairs of trotting feet began to
clip-clop over the ancient floorboards above.
They trotted from one side of the upper floor to the other, then
returned, maintaining a brisk pace. The
Earl looked bemused.
“What on earth are they doing? Rehearsing a Busby Berkley tap dancing spectacular? Get yer tits out, Freya. I need some light relief.”
The au pair took off her cheesecloth
top. Cley noted, with considerable
enjoyment, that each time the ceiling trembled, the young woman’s nipples gave
an answering bounce. He’d find her a
nice pair of tangerine tap shoes quicker than you could say ‘Shirley Temple’.
“Jump up and down for Grandpa Earl, my
dear. That’s it. Good heavens! Lord,
bless my soul!”
The young woman began to hoot with
laughter. Up and down she jumped like an
over-stimulated five year old. Her perky
boobs jiggled and wobbled, joggled and bobbled like two firm-set little milk
puddings with cherries on top. A
trampoline, that was the thing! Cley
made a mental shopping list of outdoor toys.
A trampoline and one of those faddy enormous rubber balls that children
sat on and bounced around like demonic rabbits.
Spacehoppers, they called them. They were usually orange too. Perfect with the tangerine hotpants.
A second piercing shriek issued from the
upper floor. Freya paused mid-bounce.
“Perhaps we should look?”
Cley sighed. All good things had to come to an end. He rearranged his kaftan.
“Oh, all right. No, don’t put your top on. I need the moral support. And it’s good for them to get some air.”
The odd couple vacated the cloakroom and
cautiously tiptoed to the bottom of the grand staircase. Freya insisted on putting her finger to her
lips and generally hamming it up like a silent movie star.
“Like Scooby Do,” she whispered.
Cley grinned.
“I suppose that makes me Shaggy.”
The au pair covered her mouth and choked
with suppressed mirth. Another crisp
outburst of tapping feet erupted overhead.
The Earl and the topless au pair began to creep up the stairs.
“That sounded more like Roy Castle.”
“Where’s that, Grandpa Earl?”
“Never mind. Watch out for that clipboard.”
Cley paused as the tapping feet did a
nifty shuffle and Freya ducked her head under his kaftan.
“Mmm!”
“Ooer!”
Cley leaned against the banister and
felt warm lips encircle his manhood. Freya lasciviously lapped his turgid tool
as it rose to meet her. Her hand slipped between her legs to the damp patch on
her lurid pants.
Cley groaned.
Freya slurped.
Psyche yelled.
“CLEY!”
Cley groaned again. “Quicker! Before she
cottons on!”
“CLEY! What the blue blazes is that
racket upstairs? Go and investigate and do something about it!”
“Coming dear!”
“No you are not! Get up those stairs and
see to the noises! Right now!”
Freya noisily let the Earl’s member slip
from her lips and ducked out again from the kaftan. She pouted.
“Who’s in charge here, Grandpa Earl? You
or old bossy boots?”
“Old bossy boots is in charge, as well
you know. This will have to wait until we have performed our mission. Tell you
what – when we have investigated and eliminated the tip-tapping we’ll get the
equipment out!”
“Ooh, Grandpa Earl! Can I have the
knobbly one?”
Cley grinned. Freya had jibbed at the
knobbly one until now. It looked like this expedition would show dividends. He started
up the stairs once more.
The tip-tapping doubled in intensity and
was joined by a series of screams worthy of a Doctor Who assistant.
“Hang on! The memsahib was calling from
the library. Who’s doing all the screaming?”
“Let’s find out, Early! Let’s see if we can
make them scream louder! Scream scream scream! Ice cream! We all scream!”
Freya laughed demoniacally and waved her
arms in the air. Her naked breasts jiggled as she leapt up the stairs.
“Let’s make them scream!”
Cley trudged after the tangerine demon
with an indulgent expression on his face. Freya pranced to the top of the
stairs and followed the screams to the eighth spare bedroom. Just as the Earl placed his hand on the
doorknob, all went quiet. Cley and Freya
exchanged meaningful looks. The au pair
put one ear to the door.
“I can’t hear anything, Grandpa
Earl. Except… Perhaps there is a sort of panting sound.”
Cley listened too.
“You’re right. They must have exhausted themselves with that
fracas. Come on, girlie – let’s make an
arrest.”
Freya pretended to blow the smoke off
the business end of an invisible revolver.
“OK, Mister Ironside.”
Cley turned the doorknob. At first it was hard to make out anything in
the darkened bedroom. The heavy curtains
were drawn against the bright summer sun.
The panting seemed to emanate from behind the closed drapes of a big old
four poster bed. After a few seconds, a
soft moaning joined the hyperventilating.
Boldly, Cley strode across the room and swept back the bed-curtain with
a dramatic flourish. Neither he nor the
au pair was prepared for the vision ensconced on the bed.
“Good grief! Jinks!!”
Freya approached, her hands held behind
her back, suddenly resembling a rather timid little girl. Somehow the notion of
making the handyman and his bed-partner scream wasn’t quite at the top of the
program any more.
“What are you wearing?”
The handsome young handyman seductively
sprawled on the wide bed appeared to be wearing a sheep costume. He winked, shrugged and pouted.
“Oi knows what oi loikes.”
Cley snorted.
“Come on, Jinks, we all know you don’t
talk like a spare bumpkin from The
Archers. Where did you find that outfit?”
Jinks grinned, looking every bit the
proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“Church nativity play dress-up box. Dougal adores it.”
The handyman gazed admiringly down at
the other figure on the bed, which was almost obscured by Jinks’s woolly
bulk.
Cley drew himself up to his full height
and squared his jaw.
“Dougal? Hah! Our blessed Inspector, I
presume. Darned elusive Pimpernel of a
sewer investigator! Hand him over, at
once. What’re you hiding him for? Got
the blackguard dressed up as Little Bo Peep?”
There was a muffled snort and gurgle
from the inert figure on the bed. Cley
realized that Jinks had got the Inspector as neatly trussed as a Christmas
turkey, complete with a silk scarf gag.
This was a pleasing development.
“Well done, old chap. Now, put that tub of Vaseline away for the
moment. We don’t want dear Dougal to end
up in Essex.
A few strokes of your
monstrous tool would be enough to send any chap into orbit.”
Jinks tried to look modest. Cley looked at the Inspector, who glared back
from behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles.
He was a small, lightly built man in his fifties, wearing a string vest
and a rather baggy pair of Y-fronts. The
handyman, true to his title, had deftly bound the older man’s wrists to his
bony little ankles. A discarded
clipboard lay on the floor near the bed.
Cley stooped to pick it up.
“English National Heritage. Oh, I say!”
The Earl looked as sheepish as the
handyman. Vaguely, in the lazy hazy days
of the previous booze- soaked weeks, he recalled Psyche mentioning something
about E.N.H. and a six page spread in Country
Living magazine. Yet there hadn’t
been a letter. With a sinking sensation
in the pit of his well-padded belly, Cley recalled the unopened, official-
looking missive abandoned on the patio drinks table.
“Um, Jinks, I think you’d better untie
Mr, um, Mr Dougal.”
The handyman pouted and folded his white
woolly arms in a stubborn attitude.
There was a shrill squeal from just beyond the bedroom door.
“The Hermit! My Virgo Inspector is conquered by a ram! Naughty, naughty Virgo, earthy as can be
beneath that prim exterior!”
“Jesus Christ! Psyche-”
Lady Cley swept into the eighth spare
bedroom, jingling and tinkling as she waxed lyrical over the small plain man on
the bed. The look of horror returned to
his eyes. Lord Cley rallied his
semi-soused faculties and roared at the handyman.
“Jinks!
Untie this man at once! He’s not
here about the drains.”
Everyone looked at the master of the
house. Freya giggled and the captive on
the bed noticed the topless au pair for the first time, his eyes almost popping
out on stalks.
Psyche glared at her husband.
“Drains, wiring - what does it matter
what he’s here to inspect? He’s simply
perfect in every way!”
The captive blushed above his gag and
mumbled something in a slightly softer tone than before. Psyche stooped to unfasten the silk scarf.
“There.
Speak, dear Hermit! Speak to your
soul mate!”
There was a great coughing and
spluttering, followed by a sharp intake of breath as the man’s eyes focused on
Freya’s nude bosom.
“Good heavens! That young woman is almost naked!
And you – you!”
The poor man seemed lost for words as he
stared in horror at the sheep-costumed handyman. With a great effort, he pulled himself
together.
“Madam, I am not your hermit soul
mate. I represent English National
Heritage and have no interest in the drains unless they are of especial
architectural significance.”
Psyche went rather pale.
“English National Heritage? Oh, I say!”
For once her esoteric utterances
appeared to have deserted her. She
looked at Cley, then at Jinks and Freya, with varying expressions of furious disapproval.
“Jinks, the boiler needs poking. Freya, put some clothes on this instant and
dust the library. Really, Cley, this is most unfortunate. Where’s the butler?”
“Hiding, if he’s got any sense!”
muttered the handyman, as he swished out of the room with a woolly pout, adding
a sulky “And keep your hands off my Vaseline!” as he exited.
Freya followed him, tweaking his puffy
little tail and getting a peevish slap on the wrist for her efforts. Psyche helped the poor ENH man out of his
bonds.
“I really don’t know what to say, Mr,
er, Mr -?”
“Prodworthy. Dougal Prodworthy. I presume you are Lady Cley, the mistress of
the household?”
Psyche nodded and colored.
“Regretfully, so. Cley, help Mr Prodworthy to his feet. We really must locate his clothes…”
Mr Prodworthy scowled.
“Try the billiards room. That’s where I lost your crazed butler and
encountered the handyman. I could sue
for this, you know!”
Cley draped a blanket around the
incensed man’s shoulders.
“There, there, I’m sure that’s not
necessary. Just a simple
misunderstanding…”
“Ha!
I was within moments of being violated by that wolf in sheep’s
clothing. Moments!”
“All’s well that ends well, eh?”
ventured Cley, scraping the bottom of the barrel for commiserations.
“Harrumph! I’d like a nice pot of Earl Grey tea and some
cucumber sandwiches, if you please. Then
– and only then – will we discuss the real business at hand. And I’m not making any promises.”
The Cleys breathed a sigh of
relief. They desperately needed the
rather juicy remuneration a dazzling full-color feature in Country Living magazine would bring. Lord Cley glanced out of the bedroom window,
only to spot a familiar woolly figure scampering across the front lawn with the
screaming, still topless au pair in hot pursuit. Moments later they were both followed by
Thrumm, the butler, brandishing a poker.
Just an average day at Liberty Hall but not the kind of gracious, aristocratic lifestyle the readers of Country Living magazine would devour
with their tea and crumpets.
“Tea and cucumber sandwiches coming up,
Mr Prodworthy. This is Liberty
Hall. Make yourself at home.”
Something rather kinky was happening in
the shrubbery. Cley reluctantly averted
his gaze. He’d catch up with Freya later
in the day, when Mr Prodworthy had been suitably appeased. Life was pretty good, really. He picked up
the jar of Vaseline and the three went downstairs in search of tea.
