Except of course,that Yankee Jims scenario brings to mind a rather jolly night we had at The Beauforts last summer. Following several games of Canasta and a turn or two of Pall Mall, during which I was accused of running a sextuple peel without warrant, we were to gather in the Library where Squire Trelawney was to organise some of his more remarkable japes, those in fact for which the whole County would wait upon.
I should start by saying that I did it, but this is not to take away the suspense for those who like to think themselves quite the Sherlock when presented with a common or garden whodunnit. The fact of the matter was that Roddy (The Beaufort boy and such an obnoxious specimen I have yet to meet) was found to be missing from our party, which spurred a whole posse of party goers to instigate a thorough search of the grounds.
Since I had no interest in the boy ever being found, preferably for longer than ever, I decided to spend my time more profitably within doors enjoying the hosts table with a few chums and chumettes. We fair cleared a whole pile of canape's and grazed our way through sumptious figgy puddings and bara brith, all washed down with the most deliriously delightful and probably lethal rum punch. We were just about to assault the fresh meat and game pie when there was the most awful commotion down along the hall, a commotion containing many a manly shout and female cries of woe, I imagined aged aunties holding 'kerchiefs to powdered noses, tended to by men concerned.
As a flock we cast our eyes upon the feast and thence doorward, and once more to the provender, but this time with rue writ large upon fresh faces. Collectively we reasoned that we rather ought cut along and see to what the fuss was all to do with and so with regret, we shuffled off in the direction of the shouts and cries.
Upon espying a dishevelled Rodders with the most horrendous of bloodied noses (Extra large and not at all aquiline, but thats the Beauforts for you) we almost cared the less for the din and were about to return to our rich and somewhat stolen repast, when Viggers, the local magistrate (also a guest) called us to heed and we had to skulk forward and hear this tale of woe.
It turned out that Rodders had been found in the rose beds, under the garden urn with the lead drainpipe from the greenhouse laid across that grossly oversized nose of his, by Lt Colonel Byrd and his two ugly daughters,who nevertheless did a mustard job of searching until found, the twit known as Rodney.
Although much speculation ensued as to quite how the lead drainpipe had come adrift and fallen beside the Urn, and more detective work than you can throw a hat at had transpired courtesy of Grace, ugly sister one and Charm the other, no one was to discover quite how it all came to pass.
There is the slightest possibility that my having already picked up my Pall Mall ball after throwing it rather innacurately toward the grenhouse following that false claim against my sextupal peel (not to be confused with Sex appeal sdorr and Strange Magic) might have had something to do with this crime for the benefit of mankind, remaining unsolved to this day.
Lizzie xx