2. Ex-Detective Frost

THE HIDDEN FOREST - 2

“What I need,” decided Paul Fairweather as he lay on his gross and rippling stomach on the carpet in front of a smoking log fire in his bachelor flat, papers on the floor all around him, and a large scale map of the area he had apparently inherited, “is transport.”

His stomach rumbled rather than rippled and he went to the toilet and then returned via the kitchen where he picked up a pack of out-of-date sandwiches he bought from the supermarket at half price and returned to his contemplations.

Despite the fact that he’d lived in Brumford all his life, he’d never heard of the place he’d apparently inherited, but it did have an interesting name.

It was called Blondeau Manor and the map showed a large house bang in the middle of it. His own bachelor flat was too small for him, particularly the internal doors through which he had to squeeze whenever he went from one location to another (lounge-toilet-kitchen-toilet-bedroom-toilet) and the idea that he might actually own a house that was appropriate for his personal proportions was more than satisfying. It made him whoop in a loud and annoying way (annoying to his neighbour, that is, a skinny, almost skeletal approaching middle-aged man who had once been important in the police force until he had stormed off in disgust after a crook he had taken to court was let off when he was clearly guilty as hell, and, the aggrieved detective had subsequently lowered his expectations in life by becoming a taxi driver).

That neighbour knocked on the Fairweather flat door in the sort of way that suggested he might mean business. His name was Davey Frost and it was only half appropriate. The Davey part suggested jollity, which was wrong, whilst the Frost part sounded just right because Davey Frost was an icy sort of man.

“What in the name of goodness is that noise?” he demanded, his voice reminiscent of broken glass.

“I’m sorry,” replied Paul Fairweather, “but I’ve just had a bit of good luck.”

“That’s what I need: an overweight neighbour with even more to say for himself,” creaked Davey in a frosty voice. “Why don’t you get a job? Then you wouldn’t need so much good luck.”

But Paul ignored the implied criticism and smiled broadly, rubbing his stomach with one hand until he farted.

“I seem to have inherited a manor,” he said, “from a great-great-great-great grandfather who sadly passed away in Australia.”

“So you’re emigrating?” suggested Davey with a sudden burst of almost unnatural enthusiasm.

“Not at all. My new estate and Manor and such like is in this very county. It’s called Blondeau Manor and I want to see it as soon as I can!”

“Never heard of it,” grated Davey. “If you were to ask me as a professional driver of a quality taxi I’d say there’s no such place.”

“But it’s on the map!” insisted Paul, “the very map the solicitor gave me. Come in and I’ll show you!”

“All right,” agreed a curious Davey Frost, “Being a taxi driver I’m always willing to learn.”

He followed the obese Paul from the front door to his living room where a pile of papers was randomly scattered on the floor, many of them creased with age, and yellowing, the writing on them fading, and he sat on the only chair that looked as though the fat man never used it because it didn’t sag.

Paul pointed with a pudgy finger at the centre of the map. “There!” he said, and Davey carefully picked it up and perused it at great length.

“I’d always wondered what I’d find if I went that way,” he said at length, “there are all sorts of places if you go straight on down this road,” he pointed to what was clearly a main road on the map, the one leading to Drainport, though the map itself was somewhat antiquated and the shape of roads may well have changed since it had been printed. But there was a vaguely empty space just to the right of that road and to all intents and purposes there was nothing in it save for a single picture (drawn in pencil by the look of it) of a house, with the accompanying motto “Blondeau Manor” written underneath it in a shaky hand.

“I’ve never noticed any roads going there,” continued Davey, shaking his head quite cheerfully because it seemed that the excited Mr Fairweather was being let down if the map was what his expectations were based on.

“I suppose you could drive down the main road and never notice a well-kept drive way,” murmured Paul, hopefully.

“I see most things,” nodded Davey, “it’s my training, from when I was in the police force. Very little escapes me and I’m prepared to suggest that nothing the size of a private drive would fail to attract my attention.”

“You were a copper?” asked Paul.

“You probably know that I was,” growled Davey.

“But the map. It shows my manor house and so it must exist! And look at this will. It says that the house and the grounds are enormous! And look, it mentions out-houses, even an ice house, whatever that might be, and a lodge… the whole thing’s like a major city, and you’ve never noticed it?”

Davey spent a few moments of skeletal silence perusing the details of the property as outlined in the will, and his interest was sparked. How, he wondered, could there be such a large part of the county not so far from the beaten track without him knowing about it? And if there was something there … well, the documents scattered on the fat man’s floor all looked old enough to fall into the category of irrelevance…

“I tell you what,” he said, “it’s up to me what I do with my taxi and if you like, as a friend and neighbour, I’ll take you in it and we’ll see this manor of yours, this vast acreage of estate, or not, whichever the case may be. It’ll add to my own mental map of the county and might do you a really good turn as well. No charge. The ride will be on me.”

“You’d do that for me?” exclaimed Paul Fairweather, and he did what he commonly did when someone showed a kindness to him, which wasn’t very often. He wept huge tears of overwhelmed gratitude.

“Tomorrow morning?” suggested Davey Frost, “it’s a bit late in the day to have much time to have a proper look around now, but we could use all of tomorrow morning.”

“That would be lovely,” wept Paul, “you are so kind, and added to this I hardly know you and you hardly know me… would you like a pie? I’ve got a really fresh one, chicken and mushroom, if you fancy a bit...”

“I’m vegan,” replied the ex-detective in a superior voice, “I’ll have to go now, but I’ll see you tomorrow morning, eight o'clock sharp.”

“Eight o’clock then,” muttered an eye-drying Paul as he wondered whether there was actually anything going on in the world at that nocturnal hour.

© Peter Rogerson 03.11.20