23. A Finch Too Far

What Ho Proles!

A greatly chagrined Tory candidate sat in his study at three o’clock that afternoon. I’ve always been aware that more than fifty percent of the good citizens of this country of ours have moderate to strong opinions about the Murgatroid brand and are more likely to prod me in the kidneys with a rusted umbrella than shake me by the hand. What I hadn’t expected was that one hundred percent of the local population of lollipop ladies would feel the same way, choosing to spade me with the wide end of her ‘STOP CHILDREN’ sign should I ever dare venture onto her crossing.

I lulled myself into a false calm by taking one of my favourite books down from the shelf. Caesar’s Commentaries is always good for a chuckle and I’d just reached the part where Julius the C. had done something brutal yet witty to the Gauls when there was a knock on my study door and Mrs. Priggs came in.

The old dear looked quite riled about something or other, and I was loath to have the word I’d been meaning to have with her about the close call the previous evening, when Mr. Mullins had come close to providing some mean tempered Dobermans with a protein rich snack. I knew she would only shrug and accuse me of cruelty in allowing the dogs to be fitted with the mood-altering rubber bands, but even before I could lock horns with her, I caught the whiff of pipe tobacco.

‘He’s here again,’ she nodded and backed out of room without another word.

Jeremiah Finch looked no different than three days earlier, except his pipe was already churning out more smoke than China’s industrial growth. He reached out to shake my hand but this time I barely rose an inch in my seat before I directed him to a chair.

‘Mr. Murgatroid, so good to see you again,’ he said, occupying the same space and suit as he’d done earlier that week. It felt like déjà vu but without any chance of high japes and mind games.

‘Mr. Finch,’ I said. ‘This is like having Christmas twice in a year.’ I said, though choosing not to add what I really think about the festive season. ‘Is this courtesy call or are you simply here for my autograph?’

‘More official business, I’m afraid,’ he said and gazed out of the window as indifferent as you please. ‘Your estate is looking quite wonderful. I take it you have plenty of employees to keep it in such good nick?’

‘I choose to take the fourth amendment,’ I replied.

He looked at me quizzically.

‘I have the feeling that anything I might say might be taken down and used against me in court of law,’ I explained. ‘Or failing a court of law, at some European witchhunt where English wool and a love of cricket count for very little.’

‘I only meant it as a passing compliment,’ he smiled, sucking on the end of his pipe in that way that makes his eyes narrow to fine slits.

‘Compliments be damned!’ I said. ‘What brings you here? Have you changed your mind about your senseless obedience to Europe? Can our festival of flaming goats go ahead?’

‘I’ve told you the council’s position on that,’ he said, softly, calmly, and ruddy patronisingly. ‘Make the changes I asked for and you can go ahead with your festivities.’

I picked up my paper knife and slit open a letter. I gazed at it for a moment and then cast it aside. I just wanted the chance to have the knife in my hands. I had a feeling that I would need it.

‘I assume you caught my appearance on Newsnight last night?’ I asked.

‘Oh, yes, I did,’ he smiled. ‘You gave quite the performance.’

At least the man was not totally devoid of sense.

‘And no doubt you agree that I made a pretty good case against the interference of Brussels in the affairs of an English shire?’

‘As it happens, I thought you made a very good case. Rarely have I heard that particular argument put with so much...’ He paused as he waved the end of his pipe in the air, as though looking to pin down a word.

‘Eloquence?’ I offered.

He smiled a sinister smile. ‘Actually, Mr. Murgatroid, the word I was looking for was “duck”.’

‘Duck?’

‘Yes. As I was saying, I’ve never heard the Eurosceptic case give with so much emphasis given to a large white duck sitting on a man’s lap.’

‘That was only for the cameras,’ I assured him.

‘What can I say except that is a relief,’ he replied. ‘I’d hate to think you spend time with a duck sitting on your lap for any other reason.’

There was a thinly veiled insinuation behind those words which I did not want to address except I have that damn inquisitive nature I’ve told you about before.

‘I’m afraid I don’t see you inference, Mr. Finch.’

He closed his eyes and placed the pipe between his teeth.

‘I’m sure you do,’ he nodded. ‘You see, Mr. Murgatroid, today I’m here in my capacity as the council’s animal welfare officer. We don’t make moral judgements about how a man chooses to live his life, but we do take great care in the welfare of our local animal population. And to be honest, Mr. Murgatroid, I’m not convinced that a duck makes for a good pet. I’m here to make sure that you’re treating it well.’

‘Oh, you are, are you?’

He smiled. ‘It really isn’t on, you know? Ducks are not political animals.’

‘No,’ I said, stabbing the knife into my blotter. ‘But clearly the same cannot be said about you, Mr. Finch! That’s the problem with you local officials. You love to play politics with another chap’s politics. Well you won’t play that game with me!’

And with that, I jumped up from my chair and grabbed his pipe. It was to my eternal regret that his teeth didn’t come with it.

‘Give me that back at once!’ He said, making a grab for the briar as I jumped out of his reach.

‘Then stop this nonsense! You’re hounding me, Finch, and a Murgatroid is dangerous when hounded the sort of chap who spends his time going around banning bonfires and criticising a chap’s treatment of wildfowl. And the cheek of it! You make more smoke with that pipe than half of Ireland aflame with a burning bog fire. I ask you, Mr. Finch: do the local tax payers know what you do with their money? Pestering a man about his duck one moment and his sacrificial goats the next?’

His arm shot out to make another a grab for the pipe but I dashed to the door.

‘This way, Mr. Finch,’ I said and not for pausing, I ran for the main hall.

I found Mrs. Priggs dusting the tables along one side of the wall whilst coming in through the front door was Colonel Cropper, carrying a small toolbox in his hand.

‘Ah, are you leaving, Mr. Finch?’ piped up Mrs. Priggs, throwing her duster to one side and indifferent to the scuffle that had broken out in the centre of the hall. ‘I’ll get your coat for you.’

I put my elbow in Finch’s chin as he tried to twist the pipe from my hands.

‘Give me that pipe this instant, Murgatroid or I’ll make this a matter for the police!’

I fell back, victorious with the pipe still in my hand.

‘Isn’t there a ban on smoking in public places, Mrs. Priggs? Do we normally allow smoking within the Hall?’

‘You know my opinion of that,’ she said as reappeared from the little cloakroom hidden under the stairs. She was carrying a grey overcoat in a herringbone style.

‘I thought as much,’ I said and threw the pipe back at Finch. ‘Now take your rotten shag tobacco out of here and darken my halls no more with your filthy talk of European regulations.’

‘This won’t be last you hear of this, Mr. Murgatroid!’ warned the Finch.

‘I’m damn sure it isn’t,’ I replied. ‘But the next time, I want to see the written law that says a man can’t put a duck on his lap.’

And that’s when Colonel Cropper winked at me.

I confess: it threw me for a moment. It gave Finch ample time to deliver his last speech of the act.

‘I hope to be seeing you again,’ he said. ‘Think again of what I’ve said to you. You’ve made an enemy in the council, Murgatroid. An enemy with a very long memory.’

He turned on his heels and marked out of the house and to an aging Morris Minor sitting on the drive like somebody had dropped it from the great grappling hook in the sky. I wouldn’t have believed it was mobile if Finch hadn’t climbed inside it and driven it away. The exhaust produced more smoke than half a dozen druid rituals I could mention and he could probably outlaw.

Still, there were more pressing matters to attend to.

‘What on earth is all this business of winking at me, Cropper?’ I asked as I returned to the hall.
‘Couldn’t you see I was giving that man a dressing down? Damn off-putting having you winking at me like that.’

Cyril Henderson was suddenly behind me, laughing as he began to shake the hand of the tall colonel. ‘Go on, tell him,’ he said. ‘Bloody good show!’

The Colonel blushed slightly, but hid it well with a wipe of his tash. ‘Well, you know when I was going around the Hall last night and I was checking for bugs?’

‘I remember... You’re not telling me that old Finch has been eavesdropping on our campaign meetings?’

‘Oh no,’ smiled Cropper. ‘But I hope nobody checks his car for the next couple of days.’

‘I should think that car hasn’t been checked for the last couple of decades,’ I promised him.
Henderson nodded and the Colonel looked at me with wide eyes. Even Mrs. Priggs had her hand to her mouth. All three produced a tableau which if done by Caravaggio might have been called ‘The Penny Prepares to Drop.’

It didn’t quite hit me like lightening but more like rice pudding being poured over me on a cold day.

‘You’ve not bugged him?’ I asked.

Henderson clapped his hands together, Cropper blushed ever more, and Mrs. Priggs began to laugh nervously. The next thing I know, Larry Harris was coming down the stairs a huge beaming smile on his face.

‘Wasn’t that a bit of a good luck that my chap here happened to be in the house?’ he said, clapping Cropper around the shoulders.

‘Look here,’ I said. ‘Are you saying we can listen into Finch’s every moment?’

‘Within a five miles radius and so long as he’s inside his car,’ explained the Colonel.

I shook my head. ‘I’m very disappointed with the lot of you,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’m more than disappointed. I’m appalled to the point of being shamed.’ It took a moment but eventually the smiles had disappeared from the gathered faces.

‘I mean,’ I added, ‘five miles doesn’t sound terribly far at all...’