THAT SORT OF PLACE

 Lady Viola Babbacombe fixed me with a piggy stare and grunted angrily across the desk.

               "Are you the dingo I've been talking to on the phone from Melbourne for the last two years?"

               "I'm Barrington Matheson -Price," I offered, neither confirming or denying. "How may I be of service?"

               Despite my relaxed attitude, alarm bells were clanging. Her Ladyship was the absentee owner of Blatheringho Hall, and the scarcely-feminine half-sister of the Hall's former owner, the Hon. Horace 'Bunny' Ponsonby, who had disappeared in mysterious circumstances some years previously. Until this moment I had believed her to be fading unobtrusively away in a nursing home Down Under. What was she doing here?

              "Be of service?" she growled. "Look, Blatheringho Hall has been on your books for two years now, ever since I inherited it when Bunny was pronounced legally  dead, and still no takers. All I get is endless fob-offs and I'm here to find out what's going on."

               "Well, your Ladyship, as you know, Blatheringho Hall is derelict; the cost of restoration would be prohibitive to our local impoverished gentry, and we at Matheson-Price and Pratt are reluctant to let such an historic building fall in to the clutches of nouveau riches Philistines."

              "I don't care who clutches it. As long as they can pay, the Philistines can have it. But I need to go and see the situation for myself."

              Fiona Worthington-Deville, my secretary, (50's, detached, elegantly refurbished, delightful views to rear) came to my rescue. 

             "Princess Anne is on the phone again, Barrington, wanting an update on the sale of Gatcombe Park."

             That always works, and I was in my office with the door locked before Lady B could utter another vitriolic syllable. I gave it five minutes and then buzzed Fiona. "Is the old boot still here?"

             "'Fraid so, Barrington, parked her lardy arse in the easy chair, legs akimbo, with her frillies on display, so awwwf'lly uncouth. Says will you remember her to Anne?"

              "This is serious," I said. "Tell her we'll discuss her problems over lunch, then get me Price, Price, Price, Matheson Pratt and Ceauscescou on the blower, I need to talk to Frank."

               "Matheson here," said Frank.

                "Trouble old love," I said, the Babblecombe woman's blown in."

                "What! What!" expostulated Frank. She can't have. She's in Australia, bedridden and demented."

                "Well, " I said, "demented, yes, but presently in my office and wanting to go see the Hall. Didn't you know she was coming, you are her UK solicitor."

               "Not heard a dickie from her, old darlin'," said Frank. "This is a nasty one! It could sink the whole bloody ship. Do you think she suspects anything?"
        

               "I don't know," I said, "but she is extremely arsey and we obviously need to keep her away from the Hall. Book a table at the Jockey and we'll butter her up a bit. I'll bring Fiona and to be on the safe side, I'll make sure that Razor and Svetlana know the score."

                At the Jockey her Ladyship ordered a large carafe of Fosters lager to wash down her Coquille St Jacques Provencale a la Maison. Gaston, the chef, threw a dreadful tantrum, while she, oblivious to the furore, drained the carafe's last dregs as the final scallop slid down her gullet.

               "Now, Lady Babblecombe,"said Frank,, "you really should have given us notice of this visit, we could have saved you time and money."

               "You see, " I said, "we can't actually take you to the Hall for at least another month."

               "No," said Frank.

               "Quarantine," I said.

               "Foot and mouth," said Frank, "vicious outbreak; nothing left alive within a mile and a half radius."

               "Police would shoot us," I said, "if we were found in the exclusion zone."

               "Messy business, shooting," said Frank. "Armed response chappies bagged poor Cissie Mainwaring last week; she was only walking the spaniels. Quite dead, and the post mortem revealed she wasn't infected anyway."

              Viola Babblecome wiped Provencale sauce from her mouth with her sleeve and grimaced at us. "Matheson Price? Matheson? You've got to be related, haven't you?"

              "Well, probably," I said. "We could be distant brothers on our father's  side, though it's very difficult to be precise about ones relatives in Blatheringho, It's that sort of place."

              "Yes," said Lady Babblecombe, I've noticed that you two display all the arrogant charm of upper-crust inbreds. Fancy trying to spin me that one. There wasn't any foot and mouth at the Hall when I passed by earlier, although there were a lot of strange looking people there that require an explanation."

              Frank and I concocted the explanation in the Jockey's bog. "Failing that, it's over to Razor," I said.

              I had to admit that Blatheringho Hall displayed excessive animation for a supposedly derelict property. Parked near the outbuildings were two mini buses crammed with men of unkempt appearance  and there were others working in the adjacent fields. On the Hall's terrace a group of smartly dressed men and tarty-looking women were laughing and drinking.

              Babblecombe said nothing, but the set of her jaw indicated displeasure. We entered the Hall's study where Razor and Svetlana were waiting for us.

              "This better be good," said Babblecombe.

               "It's better than good," said Frank.

               "The publicity will be tremendous when we break it to the media," I said, "and it being your property, you'll get all the credit. If it wasn't for the cash-for-honours hoo-ha, you'd probably get a peerage."

                "What credit? And who's this unsavoury pair?" asked Lady Babblecombe.

                "How rude of me," I said, "the large brick outhouse is Mr Razor Popadopolus, the tiny tattooed Goth is Miss Svetlana Abdujaparov and they are jointly managing the Hall on your behalf. You see, as there seemed no prospect of selling, Matheson and I, not wishing to concern you with trivia, took the decision to make the Hall work for you by opening it up as a half-way house for refugees. The Home Office is wildly excited about the project."

                "It's ground-breaking social engineering," said Frank.

                "Cutting edge," said Fiona.

                "The Queen was coming to open it, but had double booked with Ascot," confided Frank.

                "Codswallop," said Babblecombe. "You're running an illegal immigrant labour scam and a knocking shop. The gorilla here is the minder and the tattooed tart runs the brothel. Did you know she bats for both side, by the way? She's been making free with the merchandise for months."

                Svetlana flashed a vicious scowl at Lady B, drew her right index finger slowly across her throat and emitted an obscene gurgling noise.

                "Piggy lady toast," she said.

                 Razor looked enquiringly at Frank and me. "Svet could be right about dis, bosses. De porky chick's too sharp for her own good. Say de word and I'll squeeze her in under de parquet, she can cosy up next to her brudder, he won't notice."

                "So that's where Bunny ended up, "observed her Ladyship, "I did wonder. Anyway, before you get ideas, there's a letter lodged with my Melbourne solicitors which implicates you all should I mysteriously disappear. Fiona has been keeping me fully informed of your activities for the last couple of years now."

                "Fiona?" Frank and I were appalled. Fiona had the good grace to look sheepish.

                "Yes, Fiona is maybe my half-sister, or more likely some sort of cousin, although, as you said, it's difficult to be sure in Blatheringho. I must say though," she beamed, "that your operation is impressive and dovetails perfectly with my Australian interests. I'm sure Fiona will be happy to keep  you all on when she takes over on my behalf. The tattooed tart goes though."

                "Oh, Viola, how awwwf'lly mean," exclaimed Fiona. "Look, the poor little mite is really upset! Never mind dear, you can come and live with me."

                "Goody goody," said Svetlana, "I bring Polish Lena also, no?"

                "No," said Fiona.

                It's all worked out quite well actually. Fiona manages the Hall operation and Svetlana works for me, selling derelict barns to Russian oligarchs. She has integrated well in to village life and was recently elected as the first Lithuanian Goth president of Blatheringho WI. 

                Sadly, for Frank, Viola Babblecombe took a fancy to him and insisted on marriage as part of the take-over deal.

                Tough on Frank, yes, but sometimes, when a ship goes down, an act of noble self-sacrifice is required by someone that others may survive.

                That's what I tell Frank, anyway,