‘Why indeed?’ she said. ‘Oh, no, wait a moment. I have it. You seemed rather chipper when you arrived this evening. Have you had some good news?’
He looked surprised. ‘Why yes, as a matter of fact. I’m going to propose to my girl this evening when all this is over.’
There was a look of satisfaction in Lady Hardcastle’s grey eyes as the last piece fell into place. ‘Your young lady wouldn’t be Winnie Merrifield, by any chance?’
‘Yes,’ he said, somewhat warily. ‘How did you know?’
‘You see, Mr Molson, when we spoke to you last you said you were hoping to propose to a girl but you had “a few things to sort out”. And then we spoke to Mr Tredegar and he said he was courting a farmer’s daughter called Winnie Merrifield. And now Mr Tredegar is in gaol for burglary, apparently having returned to his old ways. It would seem that the way is now clear for you to make your intentions known to Miss Merrifield; her father would surely not countenance her marriage to a recidivist criminal.
‘I suggest that you faked the burglary to implicate Mr Tredegar to get him out of the way. In February, you stole his boots, hoping that one day an opportunity might present itself. You already knew about the cabinet somehow, and when the team won the Wessex Challenge Cup, you hatched your plan to land Tredegar in gaol.’
All eyes were on Molson. ‘You can’t prove none of it,’ he said, defiantly.
‘No,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘you’re absolutely right, I can’t. But I’m right, aren’t I? Think about what you’re doing for a moment, Mr Molson. You can’t possibly want to marry Miss Merrifield so much that you’d see your friend sent to gaol. And could you enjoy your marriage, knowing that it was based on such a terrible lie?’
He stared angrily around the room for a moment, but then seemed to deflate as the truth of his situation washed over him. ‘He don’t deserve her,’ he said, sadly. ‘I’ve loved her from afar since we was kids. I got the farm on its feet and I was tryin’ to pluck up the courage to ask her to walk out with me, when some lanky, seasick, fisherman’s son-cum-baker swans in with his good looks and his charm and steals the one girl I’ve ever loved from right under me nose. ’T i’n’t fair. Why should he get her when I’ve loved her all these years? He’d-a been all right in gaol. He wouldn’t have done long for pinchin’ a couple of trophies but by the time he was out, me and Winnie would be wed. It would all have been all right…’ His voice trailed off and he sat staring at the polished table.
This time it was Mr Treble who broke the silence. ‘I think I speak for all of us when I say that we’re most grateful to you for getting to the bottom of this, Lady Hardcastle,’ he said, all trace of his usual levity gone from his voice. ‘We have the trophies back, and we know how they came to be missing. We shall inform Sergeant Dobson of Lofty’s innocence, and leave it to him what should happen next. Whatever the official police response, rest assured that there will be consequences within the club for Molson’s terrible actions.’ He looked sternly at the forlorn prop forward. You have my word that we shall deal with the official matters within the hour, but if I might ask you to leave us now, we have some club business to discuss.’
Lady Hardcastle nodded, and I stood, collecting our things. I followed her to the door and we left them to their “club business”.
We were home in plenty of time for an enjoyable supper. After I had cleared everything away and Lady Hardcastle had set up the card table in the drawing room, we sat with our brandies and talked over the events of the past few days.
‘I must say,’ she said as she triumphantly laid down her cards to win yet another hand, ‘that it makes a delightful change to solve a mystery that doesn’t involve a cadaver.’
‘Other than the rotting corpse of “Big Jim” Molson’s reputation,’ I said, shuffling and re-dealing the cards.
‘Well, quite,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Have you ever considered a career in journalism? You have an ear for the melodramatically sensationalist phrase.’
‘I couldn’t possibly change career now, my lady,’ I said. ‘You’d starve to death. And there’s that whole business with the corsets. No, my place is here with you.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said, and we clinked glasses. ‘Nonetheless, I do think you ought to write these stories down at some point. I’m sure people would be keen to read of our adventures.’
‘Perhaps one day, my lady, when I’m old and grey and we’re sitting together in a nursing home somewhere. Perhaps then.’
‘I shall hold you to it,’ she said. ‘But back to the present, I do hope Lofty manages to get over his wrongful accusation. And that Winnie’s father doesn’t take against him. I liked the chap.’
‘I did, too, my lady. Perhaps we would intercede if things don’t go well for them.’
‘We shall, we shall,’ she said. ‘We shall keep a weather eye on romantic developments at the bakery, but in the meantime…’ She laid down another winning hand and consulted the ledger. ‘…I believe you owe me… oh, it’s still three shillings and sixpence. How did that happen?’
‘I’ve no idea my lady,’ I said. ‘More brandy?’
‘Always,’ she said.
FOUR
The Last Tram
The early summer sunshine was warming the garden as we sat on the terrace drinking tea and eating Chelsea buns fresh from the oven. The last of the workmen had left the day before and we were taking our ease in the newfound peace and tranquility of a labourer-free home. We were connected to the telephone network, the Rover was safely garaged and all was right with the world. Unidentifiable (to me, at least) birds were singing in the hedgerows and the apple tree, a squirrel from the nearby woods was sitting on the garden wall, apparently reconnoitring the possibility of a free meal within, flying insects of all descriptions had begun doing whatever it is that insects do.
The morning post had brought an invitation to a reception at Bristol City Council in honour of a visiting trade delegation from the United States, and another letter from our circus-owning friend, George Dawlish. The former had produced indignant bewilderment (“What on earth do they want me there for, Flo? Don’t they think I’ve got better things to do?”) while the latter had prompted a bout of enthusiastic reminiscence.
‘Do you remember that chap in Burma who sold us the boat?’ said Lady Hardcastle with a wistful smile.
‘How could I forget?’ I said. ‘Tiny, toothless chap. So many of the people in my life seem to be sans teeth. Nice boat, though.’