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1926 One Xenobia
Carstairs-Bassingthwaite, Nobby to her friends, Nob to her close friends,
stared down the barrel of a shotgun and felt her heart miss a beat. Her bedroom
had been invaded by a burglar, it seemed, only burglars, she thought, did not
usually carry shotguns. The intruder was tall and slim, and wore a long leather
coat and thick, horn-rimmed glasses topped with a trilby hat. He also wore
gloves. Kid gloves, of the most expensive type. “What do
you want?” Nobby asked, frowning. “You do realise I’ve just stepped out of the
bath, I suppose? I didn’t hear you knock.” The bravado in her voice was just
that – bravado. Inside the thin silk of her pyjama top, her heart was
hammering. “Shut it,
Sister!” the man growled. “Where is the golden eye?” “I’m
sorry, I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” The man
levelled the shotgun deliberately and carefully. It was now aimed not at her
chest, but at her head. “Don’t
give me that. Your old man brought it home with ‘im three years ago. I’m here
to collect it. It’s rightfully mine!” Nobby
trawled her memory for something her father might have referred to as a golden
eye, but came up with nothing. Almost casually, she put her hands on her hips. “I think
you may have the wrong house…..” “This is
Hucclecote House, ain’t it?” “It is.” “Home of
William Pemberton Cooke? Lord Cooke?” Enlightenment
dawned in Xenobia’s brain. William Pemberton Cooke was not Lord Cooke, but her
father was, and the former was her cousin. This was indeed Hucclecote House,
the seat of Lord Cooke. Had William given this as his address yet again, she
wondered? “Look,
there’s been a frightful mistake,” she said, advancing towards the intruder.
“Lord Cooke lives here, but he’s not Willy. Willy lives somewhere entirely
different, somewhere in Norfolk, I think…..” “The
golden eye!” the man rasped. “Just give it me and no one gets hurt!” “I don’t
have it,” she said calmly. “It isn’t here. You’re simply in the wrong house,
I’m afraid. I can’t help you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to dress. We
have people coming for dinner…..” She
walked slowly towards the shotgun, never taking her eyes off the man, who was
getting very edgy indeed. Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen Rodney’s
little MG sports car pull up in the drive, and knew he would be coming through
the front door any moment now. “Stand
still” the man shouted in a hoarse whisper. “You don’t want to come no closer!” “I think
you’ll find that means that I do want to come closer,” she said softly. “Double
negative and all that rot, don't you know? Now I really must ask you to leave,
I simply have to get dressed.” Nobby was just inches away from the barrel of
the shotgun as Rodney entered the hall below and called up: “Nobby! Where are
you?” That
split second was all it took for Nobby to grab the barrel and swing it to one
side whilst administering a sharp kick to the intruder’s groin. The gun fell
from his grasp as he clutched himself in agony, and as Rodney burst through the
door, it transferred ownership to Xenobia Carstairs-Bassingthwaite. “Nobby,
what are you doing?” Rodney Pickering demanded. In the melée, Nobby’s top had
slipped over her shoulders and one small, beautifully firm and
lusciously-rounded breast had fallen out, into full view. “Cover yourself up
this instant!” “Is that
all you can think of?” she asked, crossly, and suddenly Pickering found himself
looking into the barrel of a shotgun. His hands went up immediately, and in the
brief second that took, the intruder scrambled to his feet and threw himself
through the open window. “Now look what you’ve done! He’ll get away, now!
Really, Rodney, you’re hopeless!” “Now look
here…..” "No
I don't!" thundered Rodney. "Now will you please cover yourself up in
case one of the servants walks in?" "Oh,
sod off, Rodney!" Xenobia said, and calmly removed the top completely,
then sat down on the bed to brush her long, blonde hair. To be continued….. |