The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (24 page)

He took a bath. There was a hand-held shower for washing the back, and he utilized this attachment to the full. Outside, thrushes and blackbirds were singing, and occasional spots of rain pattered against the frosted glass.

Reggie endeavoured to think as he imagined Sir Wensley Amhurst would think.

Sir Wensley Amhurst thought about the pretty receptionist. God, she’d look good in fawn riding breeches.

After his bath he settled in the lounge with a copy of the
Field
and ordered China tea and crumpets.

How would Sir Wensley use his considerable charms upon a pretty receptionist?

Reggie wandered over to her, adopting an almost imperceptible limp, a relic of a fall on the Matterhorn.

‘Can you order me
The Times?’
he said.

‘Certainly, Sir Wensley,’ said the flashing smile.

‘Er …’

‘Yes, Sir Wensley?’

‘Nothing.’

Sir Wensley limped through the stone jewel that was Chipping Hampstead-on-the-Wold. He limped past its four pubs, seven antique shops, three potteries, five boutiques, and its superior store selling local jams and herbal soaps. To him it wasn’t a town, it was a tribal centre of the English middle class. His keen anthropological eye noted that there wasn’t a coloured person in sight.

He acquired a bit more character with the purchase of a handsome locally-made walking stick. He limped up the lane past the magnificent early English church on to the open wold.

‘Mad Pick-Axe’ Amhurst sat on top of a stone wall and looked out over the fields. All this had once been a huge sheep run but most of it was under cultivation now. Sad, thought the reactionary explorer.

A finch, or was it a warbler, flew into a little clump of elms, or were they hornbeams? Let’s just say a small bird landed on a big tree.

Reggie felt annoyed by his ignorance. Sir Wensley Amhurst would have known about such things.

He returned to the hotel, stopping on the way to consume two pints of foaming English beer. How often had he dreamt of beer like this as he cut laboriously through the mangrove swamps of the Amazon Basin with his pick-axe!

He smiled at the pretty receptionist, decided not to make his approach to her until after dinner, and enjoyed his traditional Cotswold meal of gazpacho, duck à l’orange and zabaglione.

After dinner a sallow young man was occupying the receptionist’s booth, and he abandoned his plan of ordering early morning tea.

He went out for his after-dinner constitutional, and there, coming towards him down the main street, was the receptionist. She had beautiful slender legs and her heels clacked loudly. The surprise of seeing her took his breath away. She said, ‘Good evening, Sir Wensley,’ and hesitated just perceptibly in her path. ‘Good evening,’ he said, and he hesitated, then walked on.

He turned to watch her walk away from him. She went up the road that led to the church and just before she disappeared she turned and looked in his direction.

Bloody hell, thought Reggie, that wasn’t ‘Mad Pick-Axe’ Amhurst, who once had seven Chinese women in one glorious night on the Shanghai waterfront. That was Goofy Perrin.

He walked round a back lane, coming out at the end of the road to the church. There was no sign of the receptionist.

He went into a pub on the hill by the church. It was packed and smoky, and she wasn’t there either.

He limped back to the hotel and went early to bed. He couldn’t sleep. His hatred of ‘Mad Pick-Axe’ Amhurst was too strong.

Wednesday

It was shortly after tea-time when the last bus delivered Lord Amhurst into the charming Oxfordshire village of Henleaze Ffoliat. Lord Amhurst was a bearded man with dark hair and a gammy leg. He looked round the little square with every appearance of pleasure, and then disappeared into the Ffoliat Arms.

At this very moment, had Lord Amhurst but known it, Chief Inspector Gate was attempting to dislodge a particularly stubborn piece of wax from his right ear with the aid of a safety match. Two minutes later, however, a weary Constable Barker entered his office and sank gratefully into the chair proffered to him for just such a purpose.

‘Nothing,’ he admitted. ‘The cashiers have been questioned at all the banks where the cheques were cashed. A few of them remember the man. If their descriptions are accurate, he was a tall dark fair-haired bald man of average height with a hooked Roman nose, one blue eye, one green eye and one brown eye.’

Chief Inspector Gate tossed his waxed match towards the waste-paper basket and missed.

The handwriting expert thinks the signatures on the cheques are genuine forgeries,’ he said. ‘But he can’t rule out the possibility that they’re forged forgeries, in other words genuine.’

Constable Barker sighed.

‘None of that proves anything either way,’ he said.

‘There’s no motive. Perrin hasn’t taken out any insurance policies lately.’

‘Anything from the beach, sir?’

‘Nothing much. There are no reports of any mysterious strangers. The only thing our chaps found on the beach was this pin.’

Chief Inspector Gate handed a small pin to Constable Barker. He examined it keenly. Then he stood up. He seemed excited.

‘This could be a pin off a new shirt,’ said Constable Barker. ‘He could have been putting on new clothes.’

‘He could have put on two enormous coconuts and done a moonlight impression of Raquel Welch,’ said Chief Inspector Gate. He examined his ear with another match. ‘It’s not much to go on, is it?’

‘I suppose not. But I’ve got a hunch that my hunch is right.’

Chief Inspector Gate threw the match towards the waste-paper basket. It landed bang in the middle, and he smiled with ill-concealed satisfaction.

‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘But as far as our investigations are concerned, Reginald Perrin is dead.’

Reggie’s room, now that he was a hereditary peer, was much better than the one he’d been given when he’d merely been knighted for services to the nation. He enjoyed a luxurious bath, utilized the disposable shoe-cleaning pads, sat in his comfortable armchair by the balcony door, and smoked one of Lord Amhurst’s favourite cheroots as he admired the view. He looked out over a diminutive valley of small grassy fields. A low arched stone bridge carried a grassy farm track over a little river. Between the showers a bright sun shone. He had two hundred and twenty-five pounds in his pocket.

When he had finished his cheroot he took a turn round the aristocratic little town. There were four hotels, three pubs, five antique shops, six potteries, two boutiques and a suede boutique. He limped badly – the legacy of an accident on the Cresta Run, where he had been a distinguished performer in the two-man bobsleigh.

He limped back across the square, filled with parked cars and coaches, and entered the Ffoliat Arms. Its handsome three-storey frontage was covered in Virginia creeper.

He crossed the foyer, threading his way between suits of old English armour, and entered the bar. It was beset rather than decorated by antlers.

The bar had six occupants. Four of them were Americans, the fifth was an attractive blonde, and the sixth was his son-in-law Tom. Tom was sitting at a corner table with the attractive blonde. Reggie almost forgot that he was supposed to be Lord Amhurst. Then he recovered himself, ordered a whisky and soda, and limped to a table as close to Tom as he dared. He sat beneath a magnificent set of antlers. His heart thumped, but Tom gave no sign of recognition. He was drinking white wine. So was his blonde companion.

So, thought Reggie, fear giving way to anger, this is how you treat my daughter, you swine.

‘It’s a very lovely house indeed,’ Tom was saying. ‘It’s got charm and distinction. Now let’s just see. Four recep., six bed., three bath. Stables. Seven acres. I’d have thought we’d be thinking in terms of at least sixty-five thou.’

‘Fine,’ said the blonde, who looked about thirty and had slightly plump arms and legs. She had a deep tan, and she was wearing a low-cut green and white striped dress. Tom was staring straight at her luxuriant cleavage.

‘You have a wonderful staircase,’ he said. ‘Marvellous mouldings.’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

Tom’s next words were drowned in a burst of American laughter. When it died down Reggie heard him say, ‘I love stone houses. I’m very much a stone person.’

‘I adore stone,’ said the cleavage. She became aware that Reggie was watching them, and tossed her head haughtily. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ she asked Tom.

‘No, really, I must be going, Mrs Timpkins,’ said Tom.

‘Call me Jean,’ said the cleavage. ‘I hate that name Timpkins. It reminds me of my husband.’

Tom looked slightly embarrassed. Jean picked up their glasses.

‘No, really,’ said Tom. ‘I must be getting home. It’s fifty miles, and my wife’ll have dinner ready.’

Reggie felt a glow of warmth towards Tom.

‘Just a teeny one,’ said Jean.

‘All right, just a teeny one, Mrs Timpkins,’ said Tom, and Reggie forgave him his extra drink in gratitude for his calling her Mrs Timpkins.

He had an uncontrollable urge to speak to Tom. He walked over to his table.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you Tom Patterson?’

‘That’s right,’ said Tom, surprised.

‘You don’t remember me, do you? I’m Lord Amhurst.’

‘I knew I’d seen you before, but I couldn’t place you,’ said Tom.

‘We met at a party somewhere. Your charming wife was with you.’

‘Oh. You met Linda?’ said Tom, pleased.

‘Do you mind if I join you?’ said Reggie.

‘Not at all.’

Reggie sat beside his son-in-law, who clearly didn’t recognize him. Jean returned with Tom’s teeny one. They were introduced.

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to rush away in a moment, Lord Amhurst,’ said Tom. ‘We’ve had a spot of bother in the family.’

Reggie frowned. He felt his presumed suicide deserved a stronger description than ‘a spot of bother’.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said.

‘My father-in-law killed himself at the weekend,’ said Tom.

‘Oh dear! How awful,’ said Jean. ‘How did it happen?’

‘They found his clothes piled on the beach.’

‘Have they found the body?’

‘Not yet,’ said Tom.

‘I think it’s awful when things like that happen,’ said Jean. ‘I think tragedy’s terribly sad.’

Tom left soon after that, promising to give his wife Lord Amhurst’s sincerest condolences.

The bar was filling up. Four Japanese came in and ordered beers. They looked at the barman blankly when he said, ‘Keg or cooking?’

Jean smiled at Reggie. He smiled back.

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ she said.

‘Er – no, I’m afraid I don’t,’ said Reggie.

‘I met you at Lady Crowhurst’s. At least I think it was Lady Crowhurst’s.’

The head-waiter approached them, with a large menu.

‘Will madam be dining with his lordship?’ he asked.

Jean looked away expectantly.

‘I’d be delighted if you’d take dinner with me, Mrs Timpkins,’ said Reggie.

She ordered smoked salmon and fillet steak. Reggie felt that he couldn’t afford to be Lord Amhurst for long.

The dining room had dark green wallpaper and big windows overlooking a lawn. Lord Amhurst had been given the best table. The four Japanese were sitting by the door.

‘Why are you selling your house?’ said Reggie.

‘Because my husband lived there,’ said Jean.

Their smoked salmon arrived. Jean chewed it with her big white teeth.

‘How is Lady Amhurst?’ she asked.

‘There is no Lady Amhurst,’ said Reggie.

‘It was awfully sad about that poor man,’ said Jean. ‘Killing himself like that. I hate death. It’s so morbid. I mean, it makes you guilty, sitting here enjoying your smoked salmon while he’s lying at the bottom of the sea, decomposing.’

‘He’ll have been eaten by fish by now, Mrs Timpkins,’ said Reggie, and Jean hesitated momentarily in her attack upon the smoked salmon.

‘Please call me Jean’ she said.

‘My friends call me Jumbo,’ said Reggie.

Their fillet steak arrived.

‘I feel awfully guilty, being so rich and idle,’ said Jean.

‘You ought to get a job,’ said Reggie.

‘I wouldn’t know how to,’ said Jean.

Reggie could hear a flood of voluble Japanese, in which the words ‘spinach’ and ‘steak and kidney pie’ stood out strangely.

‘Jumbo,’ breathed Jean, under the mellow influence of the claret. ‘How did you get your limp?’

Reggie described his accident. He described the raw thrill of the bobsleigh, the Cresta Run on a crisp morning. He saw her breasts heave. He looked at her unnaturally blonde hair and her wide, shallow nose, her aggressive teeth, her ebony shoulders, the deep sticky slit between her breasts as she ate her tossed green salad, and he thought, ‘Last night you were reduced to speechlessness by a dark fragile receptionist. Today you have this lioness for the taking. She would let you have her in her six bdrms, four rcp and three bthrms, not to mention the stbls. She would let you have her because you’re a hereditary peer, because of your limp, because of the Cresta Run. But you don’t want her, because you aren’t Lord Amhurst, you don’t limp, you’ve never been on the Cresta Run, and you love Elizabeth.’

Thursday

When Reggie woke up the sky was blue, sheep were bleating, and innumerable birds were singing. It was twenty-five past six, and he knew that he must go home.

He washed, dressed, and went for a brief limp before breakfast. Pools of water lay in the gutters, and there was a distant clink of milk bottles.

He went down the little street, out into the country, a country of dry-stone walls and beech trees. Rooks cawed and a kestrel hovered. The road ran beside a disused railway line.

Would he reveal himself to Elizabeth? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he must go back. And he needed a new identity. Lord Amhurst must be returned to the oblivion whence he had come.

He limped back to the hotel, and consumed a large breakfast of cornflakes, smoked haddock and poached egg. He paid his hefty bill and went to catch the bus. Jean Timpkins roared up in her open sports car with a fawn scarf round her head. She looked older in the mornings, and Reggie felt unable to refuse her offer of a lift to Oxford.