Conundrums<br>
<br>
Dr. Margaret Handley of Heydown Cottage, Barnstaple, Devon meets the regular postman, Jack Geddes, at her gate close on 9am on a Spring morning, dressed in her usual morning outfit of blue jogging bottoms and a t-shirt portraying Mozart, though jogging is the last thing on her mind. She remarks on the clear blue sky and the breeze coming in from the sea, though Geddes, a member of a nearby lifeboat crew for close on 20 years, scans the sky gloomily, as indeed he has always done for as long as she has known him. They share an interest in hybrid tea roses, and spend a few contented moments admiring Mrs. Handley’s abundant peace roses, unfolding pastel yellow with delicate pink edges in the bright sunshine. <br>
Geddes turns down Dr. Handley’s offer of tea, taking it as a signal to resume his slow and steady round, and hands over an unusually large pile of correspondence, secured by a thick, red rubber band. Her shrewd eye is drawn immediately to a thick foolscap-sized buff envelope at the bottom of the pile, a contrast to the usual batch of blue airmail from her family and crisp white envelopes from the Department of Anthropology at a well-known London university. Until two years ago, Dr. Handley lectured in social anthropology but retired to her Devon retreat at 57 following the early death of her husband, Arnold, from cancer of the oesophagus. Two years in Devon have facilitated a quiet observation of visitors, which she hopes one day to publish.<br>
<br>
She walks cautiously back towards her kitchen, one hand leaning heavily on a stout carved knob-handled blackthorn stick, a testament to the hip replacement operation that has substantially reduced her mobility. She sits slowly, pours tea into a white china cup and looks hard at the buff envelope. The distinctive left-facing slant of the writing brings a sly grin to Dr. Handley’s face, but she delays the pleasure by completing her tea before using a breakfast knife to slit open the envelope. <br>
<br>
“What are you up to, you old bugger,” mutters Dr. Handley to herself as she withdraws a sizeable stack of paper from the envelope. From the top, a single page letter in high quality watermarked paper stands out, bearing a gold and navy logo announcing the sender to represent Regal Carpets, manufacturers of finest density carpets and rugs since 1869. To the right of the page is printed in glossed ink the legend: “From the office of Gordon Evitts, Managing Director.”<br>
<br>
She reads on: a hand-written letter, written quickly and with increasingly abrupt and jagged letters. Dr. Handley’s lips purse slightly but she reads on apace:<br>
<br>
My Dear Margaret<br>
<br>
As well as you know me, I must admit to embarrassment in neglecting you these past few months. As you will hear, my time has been much distracted since the delightful time we shared last summer. And I promise I will visit again, if only to repay your many kindnesses, admire those magnificent roses, and to buy you a good dinner and the fine vintage your company well deserves. I trust your hip is now behaving as intended by the West Country surgeons, but then I never did have much faith in sawbones after their abominable treatment of my mother. <br>
<br>
Cut to the chase: this is sadly not a matter of social pleasantries – I’m afraid I need your help once again. Indeed, while I know you have chosen to live without artificial aids to communication… <br>
<br>
Dr Handley chuckles to herself as she reads this.<br>
<br>
…the news will not have passed you by that our former colleague Henry Marshall (or Professor Marshall as he would have insisted on being called) died in horrific circumstances ten days ago. If you know this, I am sure that you will be greatly saddened, and if not, then I can only apologise for being the bearer of grave tidings. But Henry’s death is but one of a series of bizarre circumstances that have happened to me lately. They may or may not be related, but I need the opinion of someone trustworthy before I take action. You’ll see what I mean when you read the attached. <br>
<br>
Rather than repeat what I’ve already written, I’ve photocopied pages from my journal to give you background and the relevant facts. As I’m sure you know I’ve written these past 27 years – every day since my academic career was ruined, to be precise – so I would appreciate your absolute discretion. But then, I hardly need mention such a thing to one as wise as you, Margaret! You will also find enclosed a number of relevant documents and newspaper cuttings. Perhaps you could return these when next we meet.<br>
No doubt you will read between the lines and understand the gravity of a situation that led me to write like this. Out of character does not begin to describe it! Margaret, I hope we can meet to discuss this condundrum very soon. <br>
<br>
Yours ever<br>
<br>
Gordon<br>
<br>
“Melodramatic as ever,” murmurs Dr. Handley. “Whatever has Gordon been getting up to?” She turns to the stack of paper and detaches a slim cardboard folder from the top. It contains a dozen stapled sheets of paper, photocopied from a lined journal and containing the same left-sloping handwriting. She reads from the top page:<br>
<br>
Thursday, 18 March, 2004<br>
<br>
After Susie returned last night, we sat up for a couple of hours, drank two bottles of Aussie plonk and talked about her new job at Schuster & sons. Senior editor, no less. She glowed with satisfaction, and later with alcohol, then became as giggly as a teenager as her serene façade began to slip. We drank to her future, then fell asleep together on the sofa. How absurd to regress like that. <br>
<br>
Woke at about three, with Susie still asleep and snoring. Couldn’t get back to sleep, so turned to my favourite puzzle book, a well-thumbed volume. My love of conundrums got the better of me. I flicked through and settled on this old chestnut:<br>
<br>
An astronaut lands on the planet Zebor and is confronted by two identical aliens: one who always tells the truth and the other one who always tells lies. There are two doors, one leading to a cave of unlimited riches and the other to a giant human eating plant. He is allowed to ask one of the aliens one question to choose the right door. What should he ask?<br>
<br>
Now the answer to this question is pretty obvious, but the pleasure comes from working my way through riddles such as this, starting with a thorough analysis of the scenario. Not as certain as it might at first appear: To begin with, why have I, as the astronaut, chosen to land on the planet Zebor? Possibly I have a guide book – Baedeker’s Zebor, perhaps – or maybe a treasure map or even a brief snatch of overheard gossip from a band of marauding space pirates? Indeed, am I truly alone, and if so, why did I venture out from earth without a fellow-astronaut for support? Or maybe I’m just a lone bounty hunter, traversing the universe in search of booty? <br>
<br>
Presumably I knew about the cave of unlimited riches and was attempting to find my way there in a fit of greed, to steal from these aliens. Would my life be any better if I was the wealthiest man in the universe? All this is of nothing, for my motivation is assumed to be the treasure. Unless the aliens have already stolen these riches from elsewhere in the universe and I am merely recovering the riches for the good of humanity and the universe in general.<br>
<br>
So here I am, I’ve arrived on this planet, located the valley where the riches are stored and avoided death by other aliens (assuming there are more such), and now find my way to the local Fort Knox, where only two aliens are guarding the doors (the rest are on a coffee break.) One is a bastion of integrity and the other a downright scoundrel, though I’d love to know how he got the job in the first place. <br>
<br>
Baedeker might have told me that one passage leads to untold riches, the other to a man-eating triffid, but I don’t know which is which. Now I must question one of these aliens to determine which passage will help me to a lifetime of wealth and decadence. Or must I? How do I know a band of aliens won’t ambush me on the way out? Is the chamber booby-trapped in some way? Apparently not.<br>
<br>
So I ask one of these aliens: “Which door would your colleague point to?” Unless I speak Zeborese, he (or she or it) understands English and points to a door. It doesn’t matter in the slightest whether the alien in question is telling the truth or lying, for the other door is bound to be the path to glory. Why? If he’s telling the truth, he will tell me point to the door his fibbing colleague would have chosen. Likewise, if he’s lying, he will point to a door in full knowledge that his truthful colleague would select the correct one. Seems too easy – surely there must be some other form of security system, or is Zeborean technology well behind their wealth-collecting expertise? <br>
<br>
On I go into the cave of untold riches. But wait a minute - what form do these riches take? Would I be able to carry them back to my spaceship alone, or would I have to return to Zebor to refill my pockets at regular intervals? Perhaps the aliens would have dreamed up a more challenging puzzle in time for my return visit!<br>
<br>
Ah! Now you will say that none of this truly matters, and you may be right. For the purposes of this conundrum, we assume that all these factors and many more can be taken for granted. Can we filter out all unnecessary complications in order to focus on the critical decision? <br>
<br>
Not always, in real life. The puzzle made a maudlin drunk of me on this occasion. A couple of glasses of Bruichladdich and I was reliving fateful moments in my life: the day when the old man snuffed it and I gave up a promising career as a research fellow to run a stagnating carpet company overrun by debts…<br>
<br>
…And then the day when Valerie took 24 Seconal washed down with apple juice before climbing into a hot bath to die. Christ! She didn’t even like apple juice! But before I found her body, what I saw was the dressing room mirror with the message scrawled in vivid red lipstick: “This is STUPID!” <br>
Once that memory what haunted me, sleep was impossible.<br>
<br>
Long and the short of it was that I was out of the house rather late this morning and arrived at a meeting with Ted and Stephen about the capitalisation projections for shifting 60% of production to Calcutta feeling decidedly under the weather. Drew the meeting to a close as soon as it was politic to do so, cancelled appointments and spent the remainder of the day sleeping in the flat. I might have spent the night out at the casino playing poker had Marshall not called.<br>
<br>
Our regular habit is to meet for an expensive lunch twice a year, which according to habit is my treat. We weren’t scheduled to meet until June, but Marshall wanted to bring it forward. He didn’t give an explanation and didn’t sound his usual effusive self. Something wrong with Henry Marshall? Sounds highly out of character; Marshall has not changed one iota since I first met him. <br>
<br>
We agreed to meet outside a gallery near Jermyn Street a couple of weeks hence and to lunch at Wiltons. Oh God! April Fool’s Day.<br>
<br>
Thursday, 1 April, 2004<br>
<br>
On so many occasions I’ve met Marshall he’s always struck me as being more like a cheeky schoolboy than a distinguished professor of anthropology. His prodigious hair stands out in what once would have been described as a ‘shock’. His dress sense is straight out of Just William with long trousers – a man to whom a wife would have been a godsend. <br>
<br>
At this point, a female hand had scrawled in the margin, “Misogyny lives!”<br>
“Good for Susie,” smiles Dr Handley to herself.<br>
<br>
And his expression is nothing short of mischievous – as if he is expecting to be told off and sent to his room, not least through a sense of delicious guilt at the duty-free Lucky Strike usually draped between two nicotine-stained fingers and hovering near the corner of his mouth. Or possibly the many trips to remote corners of Africa, during which these smokes were accumulated – his visits, ostensibly for anthropological purposes, were never queried too closely by his colleagues. <br>
<br>
Except this time he was different. He was clearly agitated and wary, standing well back in the gallery’s doorway. As I waved a cheery greeting, he grabbed my arm and looked furtively both ways down the street.<br>
“Quick,” he muttered and half-dragged me across the road into the famous and discreet fish restaurant. Dino, the Maitre-D’ stood to welcome us as though this were his only purpose in life, his arm beckoning towards my usual table near the front of the restaurant, but Marshall waved him away.<br>
“Over here,” he gasped, and led me to a remote booth near the back with, Dino in tow, a frown momentarily furrowing his brow. He nodded to a waiter and with the merest hint of irony, “Your usual order, Mr. Evitts?”<br>
Further evidence of Marshall’s disturbed state followed. He is a creature of habit, and would normally have ordered native oysters in season, dover sole meunière and bottle of Sancerre without being asked. I would choose a more prudent fish pie, still mineral water and a black coffee, but then I’m the one who pays. Instead, he barked “Steak and chips. Bloody. A bottle of Chambertin. And a large G&T.”<br>
<br>
I shrugged to Dino and murmured, “Make that two steaks.”<br>
<br>
Then suddenly we were alone. <br>
<br>
“What is it, Henry?” I said, as much to fill the sudden vacuum as to obtain an answer.<br>
<br>
The words forming in his mind were evidently too distasteful to say out loud. His hand fiddled absent-mindedly with his scraggy beard as he spoke.<br>
<br>
“I think I’m suppose to swear you to absolute silence, Gord,” he began in a low voice, then paused. He fumbled a cigarette from a packet hidden in an inside pocket of his hacking jacket, pulled the ashtray towards his right hand and struggled with the match book to light it. “But I doubt if it will make any difference.”<br>
<br>
I looked hard at Marshall. If anyone would prefer to talk in riddles for half an hour before coming to the point, he is that man. But on this occasion his face was writhing as though he had eaten a wasp. It took him some seconds to expel the words.<br>
<br>
“I’m resigning,” he whispered, inhaling deeply on his cig, leaving a long cylinder of ash which he regarded with a keen interest. <br>
<br>
“What?” My jaw sagged. I shook my head disbelievingly and took a large swig of my gin. Nothing I could conceive might cause this rash action on the part of the least radical character I ever met, a man certain to laugh off advice that his retirement was overdue without a moment’s consideration. Marshall’s attitude to life always made me think of myself in the heady days after I took up the reins at the carpet factory and enforced in one year more change than there had been in half a century. Did I doubt then that the business could be successful in spite of the bankers who advised me earnestly to sell out? I didn’t give it a second thought at the time. Maybe I wouldn’t be so brave now, with middle age encroaching fast. But neither would I deny my successes. <br>
<br>
I’ve just reread that paragraph. Cards on the table: my success wasn’t that easy. In fact, it was vicious and I’m not proud of many things I did in that time: sacked loyal employees, bribed certain people and blackmailed others. Success comes at a steep price – your personal integrity can’t survive intact. But surely Marshall never made an enemy in his life. <br>
<br>
“Why would a full professor with tenure resign voluntarily? Unless you’ve been involved in a scandal, Henry? Surely you’re not doing drugs or fondling your undergraduates?”<br>
<br>
His head shook vigorously and took another deep drag. “No, nothing like that.”<br>
<br>
The waiter placed two large gins and half-empty tonic bottles on the immaculate white tablecloth. Marshall picked up his glass and drank two thirds in one gulp.<br>
<br>
“Things are happening, things I can’t talk about.”<br>
<br>
“There’s politics in every profession, Henry.”<br>
<br>
“Not like this. Anyway, I thought you might be able to help me apply some of my skills in a business context. I thought I might take up a lecturing post in the business school or even have a go myself.”<br>
<br>
It was quite obvious to me that Marshall had not thought through any of these random words. What would inspire a man as successful and eminent in his field, a man entirely free of the arrogance of office, to drop his career like a stone to become – what? A junior lecturer? A belated entrepreneur? I didn’t believe it, and I told him so.<br>
<br>
“You want to teach business? Why, in God’s name? At least choose a subject you know something about.” My objection sounded feeble, but it hit home. Marshall froze as if confronted by an insurmountable obstacle, the cigarette poised half an inch from his lip.<br>
<br>
“You’re right.” He coughed briefly. “Maybe I’ll take a year out. Start a new research project in Africa. Something new. It’s been a couple of years since I published a major work. Yes, that sounds like a better idea. It might be safer there.” <br>
<br>
“Safer?” I yelled at him indignantly. “You’re not a spy, Henry. What on earth’s going on?”<br>
<br>
“Ah!” he sighed, as if I’d rumbled his line of thought, “No, that’s right. But I feel like one.”<br>
<br>
“Who’s putting pressure on you? …is the Vice Chancellor on to you? Or is the taxman?”<br>
<br>
There was a twinkle in his eye as he paused to puff on his coffin nail, regarding me suddenly with amusement. I could see the swagger return to Marshall’s demeanour. He was playing a game with me and, despite everything, he loved it. He drained his glass and was ready to hail the waiter for another but for the arrival of our wine. I motioned to the sommelier to leave the bottle. Without a sound he took the hint and departed.<br>
<br>
Marshall lit another Lucky Strike from the stub and regarded me with what I can best class as amused curiosity. “No, no, no, you’ll never guess,” he grinned at me through the haze of white smoke. “I know you like a little puzzle, Gordy. But this one you ain’t going to get. Just accept it at face value, my old chum. It’s time to go, so I’m going. My mind’s made up, that’s all there is to it.” <br>
<br>
“And you had to tell someone, so why not a trusted friend.” He grinned again, apparently oblivious to the sarcasm in my voice.<br>
<br>
As the food arrived, I thought back over our long association. The problem has always been that Marshall has very few interests outside his work. I’ve taken him to concerts at the Royal Festival Hall from time to time, engaged his interests in a range of topics. He’s visited the carpet factory, but even then his attention was largely restricted to the cultural characteristics of the workforce. This man would be dead in the water as anything else. He just couldn’t hack it, and he knew that. Why even suggest anything different? <br>
<br>
But that was all I got from him on the subject. Having unburdened himself, he seemed tranquil, almost subdued. We ate and talked about my work and Susie for the remainder of the lunch. Even anthropology, the one subject guaranteed to inspire the man into a lengthy monologue, didn’t even mention our time together as doctoral students, nor indeed the discipline of anthropology. He departed without a second glance, apparently satisfied that he wasn’t being followed. I watched him go with a vague feeling of unease.<br>
<br>
Later I spoke to Susie, who in her American way believed in serendipity. She said something about middle-aged men needing to find their destiny, though I was only half-listening.<br>
<br>
“Business is business,” she said, “sometimes people need change and find peace when they do.”<br>
<br>
I wonder if that is true. This is one conundrum I seem destined not to solve, unless....<br>
<br>
Dr Handley turns the page and spots a yellow sticky note attached to the following page. She reads on:<br>
<br>
Initially, I felt the urge to intervene and find an answer to this puzzle, but something stopped me. Loyalty to Marshall, maybe? In truth I got on with my life and forgot the promises. From April to December I heard nothing at all from him. This was not altogether surprising, though the time when we would have scheduled another dinner came and went with no word. Early in December I rang the anthropology department and left a message, but he never returned my call. I knew from that call that he hadn’t carried out his threat to resign, but I had no idea what was going on behind the scenes. GE<br>
<br>
Dr Handley wearily rests her chin on a hand and reads: <br>
<br>
Friday, 16 December, 2004<br>
<br>
Susie showed me the headlines in The Times over breakfast: beneath all the government reshuffles, the article stood out like a beacon: LONDON PROFESSOR MURDERED. <br>
<br>
It took me several seconds to register the facts: Marshall was the dead man. A friend who, while not close and often an obscure man I barely seemed to know, but it was beyond my immediate comprehension that he could have been murdered.<br>
<br>
Dr Handley turns to the first newspaper cutting; a photo of the same Henry Marshall beams cheekily back at her. His features are partially obscured by a panama hat but cannot hide an unusually well trimmed beard and complementary shirt and tie - almost a unique occurrence in her recollection. This shot must be 15 years old, probably sourced from the cousin she remembers from the funeral – what was her name? Mathilda. Matty as she preferred to be known. <br>
<br>
Dr Handley pauses to remember Marshall’s funeral. As a recent colleague, she attended though Gordon Evitts was notable by his absence – a little odd, that. Indeed, very few of Henry’s erstwhile colleagues found time to see him off. Since the good professor never married, Matty was the closest relative in attendance. She was perhaps in her late 30s, a tall and elegant woman who wore a wedding ring but who had come alone, apparently from a wealthy enclave in Surrey. It was she who had organised the funeral, though Dr Handley’s inference was that they were not close. Matty looked not so much upset as bemused by her cousin’s death, but had a quiet word with each guest – of whom there were barely half a dozen.<br>
<br>
She skims the article to remind herself of the details. Broad daylight…bizarre…London street…motorcyclist…throat cut…died instantly…no leads…no motives…witnesses… call…police station…; and so it went on. Several more cuttings add minor details, but nowhere is there closure or resolution, nor any arrest. <br>
<br>
Among the papers Dr Handley discovers two obituaries, one from The Times, another from an the Journal of World Anthropology. Both highlight his career but make no insight into the very private life of this enigmatic character. She turns back to Evitts’ account, skipping a lengthy anguished and emotional section with a jaded sigh.<br>
<br>
I phoned the University, but they were making no official comment. Later, I arrived discreetly at the main campus, but the presence of two police vehicles warned me off – I didn’t really want to explain my involvement with Marshall while still in shock; I might have told them what an old sod he really was. Similarly, police cars were parked outside his flat, so I tried some of our very few mutual acquaintances to no effect. The truth suddenly dawned on me: I knew practically nothing of what went on in Marshall’s life, who he talked to, where he went, what he did. <br>
<br>
I returned home and rifled through old correspondence for anything that might help to explain how he came to be lying in a gutter in a pool of his own arterial spray. Nothing provided any clues, though I did flick through my diary entry for our final meal together. It hit me between the eyes: “It might be safer there.” Surely his life couldn’t be in danger from members of his own department? Immediately, I logged on to the net and started to trace Marshall’s colleagues. The police might be talking to them, but wouldn’t have the advantage of knowing that at least one of them must be harbouring some relevant information, at the very least.<br>
<br>
Dr Handley mutters to herself: “So why not go to the police yourself, Gordon? Unless you took Henry seriously when he asked you to keep it to yourself.” Her brow furrows. “Or maybe you took it as a challenge.” <br>
<br>
For a brief moment, she reflects on the impulsive Gordon Evitts, who despite his protestations to the contrary did not in Dr Handley’s estimation have the mature and scientific mindset to become an academic. “You always were a bull at a gate, Gordon” she says to no-one in particular. <br>
She skims through several more pages of speculation and evidence gathering. No word can be seen on Evitts’ curious decision to give his friend’s funeral a miss, neither does he seem to have found any definitive rationale for Marshall’s death. But then the last section is in her hand. It is immediately apparent that significant progress has been made. Whatever Evitts has discovered, he has not elected to share the relevant entries. Dr Handley’s eye is drawn rapidly to one key phrase: “Redbrook Place.” Her trained analytical mind is instantly focused on the page: <br>
<br>
Saturday, 23 April, 2005<br>
<br>
Tonight was the night. At last an opportunity to break through and find out what was really going on at Redbrook Place, at some risk. Or I thought it would be, but now I’m not quite sure. Something very peculiar was going on, though I can’t say for certain what it was. <br>
<br>
The first part was remarkably easy: having identified the building and its service entrance, I dressed in green maintenance overalls and took a bag of tools to the back of the building. I hid myself near the security gates and waited for them to open for a vehicle, which only took a few minutes. It was a small van in plain white, driven by a young black guy. He stopped the van and smiled towards a CCTV camera. The gates opened, so I followed the van and turned the corner, hiding behind a pile of crates. If anyone saw me, there was no reaction. <br>
<br>
The delivery guy got out from the van, opened the back doors and waited. A few seconds later, a man in a butler’s uniform unlocked a riveted steel door and came out to speak to him. The butler looked stressed. He went around the back of the van and looked at whatever had been brought. I couldn’t overhear their conversation, though something did not meet the butler’s satisfaction. His voice steadily rose as they debated the quality and quantity of goods expected. <br>
<br>
It sounds like a cartoon, but I really was able to creep along the wall and in through the door without either party looking up from their heated exchange. I almost laughed out loud. The first room was narrow, with vegetable racks on one side and a chest freezer on the other. The next antechamber had several industrial-size fridges but no door, so I could see through to the kitchen beyond. <br>
<br>
There were maybe three or four young cooks prepping food for dinner, supervised by a sous chef, with a couple of porters near another storage area at the far end of the cooking area. I was surprised to see so many of them there, since this was mid-afternoon – the traditional rest time for catering staff. It seemed to confirm my suspicions that there was a major event to be hosted there that evening.<br>
<br>
I picked up a clipboard and pen from a small chef’s table near the door, pulled a cap down over my eyes and blustered my way through the kitchen, casting glances at the florescent lighting. I needn’t have worried – none of the staff looked up. I was into a short panelled passage leading to the dining room, but continued onwards. A few steps beyond was a servants’ staircase, then to the right beyond that a grander hallway lined with pictures of people I presumed to be former presidents of the society. Several doors led off, but I headed for a fine set of gilded double doors. <br>
One of these doors was slightly ajar, so I could see through into a huge ballroom with a high chandelier. Two waiters were taking bottles of champagne from a box into a small cooler sitting near to a servant’s entrance against the far wall. After a few moments they left through that door, so I waited, then nipped over to that door. It was perfect – a small lobby with toilets. I placed the clipboard nearby in case anyone should pass, then sat against on a stool near the door to wait – for what I didn’t know, but I felt sure something was going to happen. I was there for several hours, slipping into the Gents when I could hear people passing. But I don’t think I was spotted at all. <br>
<br>
At some point in the evening I was becoming weary, not to mention hungry - I even thought of quaffing one of the bottles of champagne. There was a small hum of activity in the ballroom, but not yet a large number of people. But then I heard someone walking quietly up the corridor. I slipped back into the toilet, locked the door and listened carefully. <br>
<br>
There was one man, and I could hear him muttered to himself under his breath. Not just talking – he was goading himself angrily. The first words stuck vividly to my memory: “Fuckshitwank!” – just like that – “fuck, fuck, FUCK!” This was pretty strange in itself. I couldn’t see him, but he was evidently livid for reasons unknown. He passed on into the ballroom. As the door was opened, the noise level immediately rose so I knew that a group of guests had arrived. I listened, heard no noise in the passageway, so slid out quietly. I opened the main door a crack and saw about thirty people, with waiters and waitresses milling about with trays of champagne. The butler I had seen earlier was acting as master of ceremonies, ushering guests around the room. It wasn’t obvious who had been swearing violently at himself, but I skimmed the crowd to see if I recognised anyone else. No face among the guests looked at all familiar, so I wondered what to do next. <br>
<br>
I would probably have made a swift exit, but then there was an announcement. And I saw him! Didn’t know the name, but I knew the face without any shadow of doubt. What he was doing there I couldn’t say, but I knew instinctively that he was the man I’d been looking for. Couldn’t hear what he was saying to the group of guests, but it must have been a call to dinner because they began to move towards a door at the far end of the ballroom which I knew from my earlier movements was the location of the dining room.<br>
<br>
Where next? I followed the passage further along until I came to a crossing passage. A right turn and I had formed a perfect square back towards the servant’s entrance to the dining room. There was a steady flow of waiters from the direction of the kitchen bearing plates of food so I couldn’t go any further or look in the dining room, so I hung around in a recess in the corridor for a few minutes until there was a lull in the activity. Then I skipped along the passage towards the staircase I had spotted earlier. There was no sign of anybody, so I turned the corner on the stairs, sat on a step and looked over the top of the wooden banister towards the doors, maybe 20 metres from where I sat. <br>
<br>
The timing was immaculate – the waiters began bringing the main course out almost immediately. The butler arrived too, followed by a group of young men and women dressed as waiters but who carried no food. They gathered just beyond the doors in a semi-circle around the butler, who gave each of them instructions in a hushed voice – I couldn’t hear what he was talking about, but each in turn nodded, then entered the dining room. The butler looked carefully at his watch, and then followed his team into the room and closed the door behind him.<br>
<br>
If I relaxed at that point, it could not have been for more than a few seconds. With no warning, all hell broke loose – I heard loud shouting, screams, furniture being thrown, the sound of what I took to be a fight. The door opened briefly, flooding the hall with a shaft of light that was extinguished moments later. More screams, the light returned rapidly, someone wailing, then a shocked silence. And suddenly the butler strode back through the door, into the passage and back towards the kitchen. On his face was an unmistakably triumphant smile. <br>
<br>
Dr Handley breaks off from the text, nods slowly, then frowns. She reaches over to the table and picks up a cordless telephone handset. “Always knew it’s best to keep a few secrets,” she chuckles to herself, then begins to dial.