The Theft

What Ho Proles!

After my stunning return to literary form yesterday, I thought it would worth a few minutes to tell you what I’ve really been up to during the lull in my posting. I’m encourage to make this confession by the brown parcel which arrived at the Hall this morning It signalling the moment when the pact was broken. Secrets can now be revealed. We can now speak about dark designs and my encounter with the criminal underworld.

The parcel arrived in the company of a man whose nose and ears suggested a life of pugilism. I don’t speak boastfully, but there was also a look of fear in his eyes. As well there might. The parcel contained what is known in certain circles as the ‘Murgatroid Diamond’, though that is a bit of a misleading title since it’s not actually a single diamond but rather a cluster of some of the finest examples of carbon atoms you’re likely to find outside the royal collection.

The cluster is actually a broach which my great great grandfather had made to celebrate his return from his diamond prospecting mission in what is now known as South Africa. It’s priceless and usually lives in a London bank safe. However, a recent change in the family’s financial arrangements meant I had to withdraw it and keep it at the Hall for twenty-four hours before I could deposit it elsewhere. Excuse my reticence to explain more but one simply does not know who is listening. Their exact location is best kept a secret. Let’s just stick to the fact: I changed the family’s banker and had to transfer valuables from one safety deposit box to another.

All this happened approximately two weeks ago. As did the theft.

I’ve kept the details from you because I knew you’d only worry. We were all quite safe and nobody came to any harm. Well, nobody of any significance… My Man did get fairly slugged around the temple when he crossed paths with the intruder in the room where I keep my safe. Again, let’s accept my vague terms. What’s important is that My Man, the damn coward, didn’t do a thing to stop the robbery. He claims unconsciousness robbed him of his chance to repay his many debts to me but I like to think he’s of a criminal bent and there’s an unspoken rule among thieves. I suspect the large bloody wound on his head is self inflicted. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Two days later, we received the ransom demand. One hundred thousand pounds in used notes. Naturally, I could have paid up. It would have been an end to the new Aston Martin I’ve had my eye on for some time and one is advised to give in to these people when you have such rare valuables.

However, if you’re a Murgatroid, you know there are always other methods.

I arranged to pay the scoundrels by meeting their courier in a shady Little Chef bistro on the A448 outside Kidderminster. The man was a shambolic sort of creature full of confidence that his part in this despicable little crime should soon be over. His confidence was his downfall. My Man soon had the bag over his head and we had stuffed him in the boot of the Bentley before you could say pretty much anything witty and alliterative.

What followed was a week of negotiations with the underworld. The man we’d bundled away was the brother of a well known criminal type and after a bit of chat, it turns out we have a lot in common. He even belongs to some of the same clubs as me.

Funny world.

Anyway, the broach was returned this morning and my hostage was released without harm. It’s been a terrible week but these things are sent to test us men of wealth. It’s the small inconveniences that are often the hardest to bear, which is something the prolish masses will never understand.