Mark Weaver

@markweaver.bsky.social

272 Followers 65 Following

Author and instigator-in-chief of the scribes. Former professional archivist and records manager. Lives in the Dark Peak with more fountain pens than he realistically needs. Does not use AI. For more details visit scriptoriumscribes.com

“Good afternoon. Purkiss, Ipcress and Shoreditch. How can I help you?” said the voice at the other end.
“It’s John Maynard here. Could you put me through to Mr Purkiss?”
“Can I ask what it’s about?”
“It’s about me needing to speak to Mr Purkiss.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s with a client at the moment. Can anyone else help?”
“When will he be available?”
“Let me take a look at his diary. One moment.”
John found himself put on hold with muzak being played at him. It was the sort of bland, inconsequential background music that quickly got on your nerves. Before long, the voice came back on the line.
“I’m sorry, but it looks like Mr Purkiss is busy all afternoon. Can I take a message and have him call you back?”
“Is there a time tomorrow when he’s free? It might be better if I spoke to him face to face.”
“One moment while I check.”
John was put on hold again with the muzak. It was still the same irritating tune.
“Mr Purkiss has an opening at half past two tomorrow. What was your name again?”
“John Maynard.”
“And what is it that you want to talk to Mr Purkiss about, Mr Maynard?”
“It’s a personal matter relating to my late father,” said John, “and the duchy.”

Remembering he was out here on company business, it struck John that he hadn’t had any emails or messages since he’d arrived in the duchy, not that he’d been checking. Events had happened fast, and he’d been swept along by them. He checked his phone. While it had plenty of battery life, it was showing no signal. His PA, Caroline, had warned him this might happen.
Unperturbed, he finished his breakfast and ordered another cup of tea while he read the rest of the paper. When the tea arrived, he asked if the café had wi-fi, which it did. Once connected, a handful of emails and messages appeared. John had assumed there would have been more. The emails were office stuff and nothing that Caroline couldn’t handle for him. This was probably why he didn’t have many, as she’d already done them. For the first time in his life, he had an inkling that he wasn’t needed as much as he thought. Sure, work kept him busy, but that was before. Now that he was a duke and business owner, there would be other matters to attend to. This would not include the presentation of retirement clocks. That raised the question of who would hand out the gifts, order the Christmas hampers and do all the other things he used to do? The conclusion he reached was either anybody or nobody. The further realisation was that his role had simply been a distraction: a non-job to keep him otherwise occupied.

“This investiture… how large a crowd is expected?” John asked when Molly brought him his coffee.
“It will be standing room only if the last one is anything to go by. Thousands came for your father’s and not only duchy folk. As well as French and Swiss, there were quite a few from further afield and one who’d flown all the way from New Zealand. Bernard will have his work cut out issuing all the day passes at the border. It’s going to be quite the spectacle.”
“Thousands? I thought a few hundred at most might turn up.”
“For an investiture? Oh, dear no. It’ll be thousands, you mark my words. It’s a national holiday for one thing, and who doesn’t love a bit of pageantry? Everyone dressed up in all their finery. This place will be packed come mid-morning, I’m telling you. I only hope the brewery delivers on time before the streets get blocked. The last thing we want is to be running out of beer halfway through.”

When he got to the Boot & Garter, John found that a crowd had gathered outside, eager to get a glimpse of the new duke. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to shake his hand or pat him on the back. He’d not experienced anything like this before and wasn’t comfortable with it. Protesting about “Your Grace” and “Sir” was getting him nowhere, and he’d begun to resign himself to this being how it was going to be in the duchy from now on.
“Thank you. Thank you so much, you’re very kind. Thank you for your warm reception. Thank you.”
He shook the hands offered to him while making for the entrance. This wasn’t easy as he was still carrying a salami, a bag of carrots, a model yacht, three maps of the duchy and a newspaper, all without a carrier bag. When he got inside, he found it even more crowded than outside. He pushed his way to the bar.

“Why don’t you do it as a charity thing?”
“How?” asked John. “It’s me paying for the dinners.”
“I mean as a way of raising money for charity,” said Emerson. “You could ask for donations towards a good cause.”
“The Duchy Charity would be a good one,” said Colin.
“They’re the lot with the statuette collecting box of a child with almost every ailment known to humanity, aren’t they?” said John.
“Don’t forget about the squirrel,” said Emerson. “That thing used to give me nightmares as a kid. I used to wake up in fear of being swarmed by diseased squirrels covered in green spots.”
“It’s a worthy cause, and it’ll be good PR for you,” said Colin.
“Do they have a rep I could talk to?” asked John.
“Mrs Cartwright’s one of the main ones behind it. She can be a bit of a busybody, but her heart’s in the right place. I’ll set something up. Of course, the Duchy Herald will want it as an exclusive.”
“I wasn’t aware that there was another newspaper in the duchy,” said John.
“There isn’t, but it doesn’t hurt to splash ‘Exclusive’ over the front page from time to time,” explained Colin.

At nine o’clock on the dot, Miss Bembridge opened the front doors of the château to allow the public in. John was second in the queue. At the front was Mrs Palmer, who was there to renew her amateur radio licence and drop off a tin of biscuits.
“Good morning, Mrs Palmer. Go right up. Mr Pirbright is expecting you,” said Miss Bembridge. “Oh, good morning, Your Grace. I didn’t realise you had an appointment.”
“I don’t,” said John. “This is me popping in for a quick word with my First Minister. I could have telephoned, but some things are easier done face to face.”
“Do take a seat in reception. Can I get you a cup of coffee while you wait?”
“No, thank you. I’ve not long since had one.”
“Can I ask what you’re seeing Mr Pirbright about?”
“Yes.”
Miss Bembridge waited expectantly.
“I didn’t say I was going to answer,” said John, “but if you must know, I wanted to talk to him about the duchy’s cryptocurrency.”
“That thing Emerson’s working on?”
“The very same. Do you know much about it?” asked John.
“No. It’s too complicated for me. Emerson got very excited about it, but that seems to have worn off. All he does now is sigh if I ask him and change the subject.”

“What’s that?” asked John, pointing to an evil-looking metal coffin-shaped thing with spikes inside. “It wasn’t actually used, was it?”
“Ah, that’s our iron maiden. It’s a fake, of course, like all the other iron maidens you see. It’s nineteenth-century construction, quite probably pieced together using odds and ends found lying around to create something spectacular for exhibition. We keep it here as people seem to like that sort of thing. There’s a torture rack in storage somewhere. That’s fake, too. There were racks, but there’s no record that the duchy ever used them. I suppose it says more about Victorian museum visitors than anything.”

“Talking of stolen books, my PA, Caroline, hasn’t had much luck with the Camberwell. It’s proving harder to get than I realised.”
“I did say they only rarely came onto the market.”
“If anyone can find a copy, it will be her. It’s still early days, and she’s like a bloodhound when she gets going. I don’t suppose there’s any more news about how it disappeared in the first place?”
“Nothing,” said Miss Fotheringhay. “If it had been picked up by accident, it would have been returned by now. No, my money is on it being stolen to order by international book thieves.”
“I’m not sure international book thieves are a thing,” said John.
“Whoever took the book was a thief. Nobody from within the duchy would have stolen it, therefore, the thief came from another country, therefore, they were international, making them international book thieves.”
“I can’t fault your logic, Miss Fotheringhay. Let’s hope it turns up soon or Caroline finds its replacement.”
“I’m not holding my breath, but thank you for at least trying. It means a lot to know that the duke is on your side.”

“Excuse me now?”
“It’s a simple enough question, Your Grace.”
John had no idea what the question was asking. He only knew it was a question because it had started with, “What do you think about…?” Thinking in a hurry, he came up with an answer that sounded statesmanlike.
“I leave all financial matters relating to the duchy in the very capable hands of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, in whom I have complete confidence.”
The fact that he had never even met the Chancellor, only his First Minister, was by the by. Colin Boot scribbled something down, but he couldn’t see what it was.
“Thank you, Your Grace. Good luck with the investiture this afternoon.”
“If you don’t mind, I need to get ready. I have a lot to do.”
“Of course,” said Colin, standing aside. “Don’t let me hold you up.”
John unlocked the door to his room, went in and made sure it was locked securely behind him. This Colin Boot was not to be taken lightly. John was already regretting his answer to the last question. It sounded complicated, and he hoped he’d given a good answer. The part that troubled him was about having every confidence in his Chancellor. Would that get twisted to imply that he didn’t, and it was only a matter of time before the Chancellor got given the heave-ho? Only time and the next edition of the Duchy Herald would tell.

“Ladies! Gentlemen! If I may have your attention for a moment. I would like to say a few words to thank you for the great honour you have shown me by being here today. I would also like to thank my First Minister, Mr Pirbright, for making all the arrangements for my investiture. Is he here?”
A voice from the back of the room and a raised hand indicated that he was. A polite ripple of applause followed, which is difficult when you’re balancing a plate of canapés and holding a glass at the same time.
“I haven’t been a duke for long, and I’m still getting used to it, so please bear with me if at first I make a few mistakes. Nonetheless, as your duke, I will endeavour to do my very best for the duchy and everyone in it. So, without further ado, I would like to propose a toast.”
John raised his glass and said, “To the duchy!”
With raised glasses came the refrain, “To the duchy!” Feeling that the pressure was now off and he could relax a little, John took a sip of his drink. It wasn’t bad stuff.
“Waiter? What is this?”
“Champagne, Your Grace.”
“No, I meant who makes it? Is it one from the duchy?”
“Yes, Your Grace. This is Maison de Bruckshaw. The ninety-eight, to be precise.”
“It’s jolly good stuff.”
“Mr Bruckshaw will be delighted to hear it. He is the gentleman over there with the monocle and blue sash.”
Eddie Bruckshaw wasn’t the sort of person you would expect to find in a monocle or a sash. He was more the sort of person you’d expect to find in a dark alley who would relieve you of your wallet and any other valuables you happened to have about your person. John went over to talk to him.

“I’m looking for a book about the responsibilities of being a duke.”
“Perhaps you should ask Mr Pirbright about it,” said Miss Fotheringhay. “He’s the constitutional expert.”
“No, I’ve already seen him this morning and don’t want to bother him again. Besides, it’s more a general question about dukes and not the duchy in particular,” said John.
Miss Fotheringhay thought about it.
“How about The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli? It was a sort of instruction guide for new princes and royals. It’s bound to be a bit dated, but I’m sure the basic principles have stood the test of time.”
“I’m not sure I’d want to be caught reading anything by Machiavelli,” said John. “I don’t think it would be a good look.”
“There’s Clanchbury’s Reflections On The Mirrors For Princes, but that’s more a summary of the genre than an instruction manual.”
“I was thinking dukes rather than princes. Wait? There’s a genre just for princes?”
“Indeed, Your Grace, although genre is a rather loose use of the word. They were political writings during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Now I’m saying it, I get the sense that’s probably not what you’re looking for.”
“Probably not.”
“Something more modern then.”
“Preferably this century.”
Miss Fotheringhay thought some more.
“What about something on citizenship?”
“Too general. I need it to be about dukes.”
“That is quite a niche readership.”
Now it was John’s time to think. He reluctantly came to the conclusion that what he was looking for most likely didn’t exist.

“Thinking about it,” said John. “I suppose I’m going to need legal advice from time to time now that I’ve got a duchy to run and a business to oversee. It makes sense to keep you on a retainer, or whatever it is you lawyers do.”
“We can certainly continue to act for you as we did for your father in his business concerns. However, were the matter to relate directly to the duchy, I would advise retaining the services of a local legal firm. Your father engaged Hepplewhite’s, who are based exclusively in the duchy, for such things.”
“Hepplewhite’s, eh? The name sounds vaguely familiar.”
“There was a cabinet maker of that name in the eighteenth century, a contemporary of Sheraton and Chippendale, although I am not aware of any connection with the duchy.”
“That’s probably it,” said John.
“Well, if there is anything further I can do to assist, please let me know. I will be in touch presently concerning the probate for your father’s will.”
John got up to leave, but that nagging question he couldn’t quite put his finger on was still there.
“If there was a problem with the duchy, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“We would be obligated to, were that to be the case, Mr Maynard. Obligated.”
“Good. In which case, I won’t take up any more of your time.”

The journey across the square took mere moments. By the time John had got in, talked to Madge and got out, it would have taken as long to have walked. The fresh air would have done him some good, too. Madge pulled up outside the Boot and opened the passenger door.
“We’re here, Your Grace. I’m to take the coronet and sword back with me, but you can keep the robes and cloak until morning. I’ll pick them up sometime around eleven. Try not to get anything spilt on them. Ermine’s a beggar to wash even if it is faux fur.”
De-crowned and disarmed, John went into the pub. As soon as he walked through the door, a big cheer went up.
“I understand I’m supposed to say that this pub has got an extension to stay open and that the next round is on me.”
The crowd waited in expectation. John had not actually declared the extension and the free round.
“Oh,” he said when the penny finally dropped. “I hereby declare this pub to stay open tonight until the landlord sees fit to kick everybody out. I do further also, er, hereby declare that the next round is on me.”
Another cheer went up. Pats on the back propelled John towards the bar.
“What are you having, Your Grace?” asked Bill Boot.
“After the evening I’ve had, I’d say an aspirin and a lie-down.”

Agatha Bembridge looked up from what she was reading as John walked back into the château reception area.
“Back so soon, Your Grace? I’ll let Mr Pirbright know you’re here.”
“No need, Miss Bembridge. It occurred to me that I haven’t seen this famous data centre of ours. I wonder if someone would be available to give me a quick tour.”
“I’m sure Mr Pirbright could free up some time after lunch.”
“I was more thinking of doing it now,” said John. “What about the young chap that runs it? What’s his name? Gangly fellow, looks like he could do with seeing daylight more often. Is he about?”
“You mean Mr Siddall?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’ll call him to see if he’s available.”
John could only hear one half of the conversation that followed, but it was obvious that Emerson Siddall did not want to be disturbed. Miss Bembridge had other ideas.
“Now you listen to me, Emerson Siddall. The duke is here right now wanting to see the data centre, and he’s not a man to be kept waiting. You get up here this instant, or I’ll come down and drag you up by the ear, so help me.”
She put the telephone down.
“Mr Siddall will be with you in a few moments, Your Grace. Please take a seat while you wait.”

After listening to what stood a good chance of being “On Ilkla Moor Baht ‘at”, John made his way to the edge of the crowd. There was still ages to go, and while it wasn’t that long since he’d had his breakfast, he quite fancied an ice cream. The hand cart, complete with maroon and gold canopy and the words “ice cream” written in bright letters on it, was the obvious place to go. When he got to the head of the queue, he addressed the proprietor, a cheery man wearing a duchy-coloured striped apron.
“Can I have a Double 99, please?”
“You mean a Double Duchy? Certainly, sir. For only tuppence thir’penny extra, I can make that a Triple Duchy for you.”
“I’m not familiar with those. Three flakes instead of two?”
“Right you are, squire. Your choice of monkey’s blood or chopped nuts, either way.”
“Monkey’s blood?”
“Strawberry syrup. I did have chocolate syrup, but I’ve run out. I’m getting low on ice cream, too, to be honest.”
“I’ll have a Triple Duchy with monkey’s blood, please.”
“Excellent choice, if I do say so myself. One Triple Duchy coming right up. That’ll be a shilling thruppence fi’penny.”
While the man was scooping the ice cream and sticking chocolate flakes in it, John reached to get his wallet. It wasn’t there. He began the ritual patting of pockets when he didn’t find what he was looking for.

As Saturday mornings in the duchy went, this one was proving livelier than most. The market in the main square was busier than ever and had a carnival feel. Town Guards in full ceremonial regalia paraded about, their breastplates gleaming, morions shining, and halberds glinting. The Duchy Brass Band were in attendance and having a crack at what could have been music from the movies. Which movies were anyone’s guess. The two Second World War tanks parked outside the château had attracted a crowd of their own. This was helped in part by a gentleman in a powdered wig, frock coat and breeches standing on top of the M4 Sherman. His bellowing announced to the world that his book was available for subscribers to put their names down for.
The cacophony drifted in through the open window in Alexander Pirbright’s office, where John paced the room. Pirbright sat at his desk, a neat pile of documents and a manila folder in front of him. The topmost document said “Arrest Warrant”. Both men were waiting for the phone to ring. John checked the time, as he had been doing every few minutes for the past hour.

“The Duchy of Vallonné Là-Bas Brass Band plays the national anthem. Stand to attention, put one hand on your heart and look solemn.”
She indicated to the band leader that they should now begin to play. The conductor flourished his baton to count them in. An expectant hush descended as the anthem began. It was the sort of march that Sousa would have penned if he’d been commissioned to write something stirring, but had been pushed for time and cobbled something together out of previous marches he’d done or heard or half-remembered. It was a bit like “The Liberty Bell” and “The Stars And Stripes Forever”. It had more than a dash of “The Radetzky March” and “Anchors Aweigh”. There were probably several other tunes in there that their composers would have sued over for plagiarism had they still been alive. What emerged ticked the rousing march box. The band played with enthusiasm and stayed more or less in tune. It was uplifting stuff. It made the heart swell, and the eye shed a patriotic tear, even without the lingering effects of mothballs.

“How did you know my father?” asked John.
“We were, how can I put this discreetly… close.”
“How come I don’t know you then?”
“Your father was also discreet.”
“Oh,” said John, not knowing what she meant. Then it clicked. “Oh.”
“Don’t worry. It was after your mother had passed.”
He’d figured out who one of the non-disclosure agreements related to.
“I’m glad you were able to, er, that is to say, I mean, when all is said and done, um, in the grand scheme of things, what matters is, er…”
His tongue was strangling the few words his brain could come up with. She wasn’t his mistress as his father hadn’t remarried after his mother had died, so what then? Companion? Romantic partner? He settled on the latter. It sounded less, for want of a better way of putting it, sordid.
“I’ve made you feel uncomfortable,” said Constance.
“It’s just that I didn’t think of my father that way, you know, as the romantic sort.”
“He had his moments. I’ll miss him.”
“Same here. There’s so much I didn’t get to say. I feel like I barely knew him.”
“Regrets are one of the things you have to learn to live with as you get older. There are things I’d do differently if I had my time again, but that’s wishful thinking. It doesn’t get you anywhere.”

Outside, the vintage Daimler stood waiting. Before, it only had little flags on the fenders. Now it was festooned in maroon and gold ribbons and swathed with garlands. With all the flowers and foliage on it, it looked like it had been driven at speed through a florist’s shop. Madge held the door open for John to get in, then passed him her halberd through the open window.
“Can you look after this, Your Grace?” she asked. “It won’t fit anywhere else.”
“Why did you bring a halberd with you?” John inquired.
“Tradition,” said Madge.
“I thought you were an Electoralist.”
“Not when I’m on the job, Your Grace.”
“And since when did you call me ‘Your Grace’? You weren’t like this at the airport.”
“You weren’t the duke then. You are now, or will be once you leave the abbey.”
“I thought the duking happened outside the château.”
“That’s the public ceremony. The passing of the duchy, as fixed by custom and law, happens at the abbey.”

The carriage pulled up in front of the château, and a footman opened the door to allow the duke to get out. The fresh air came as a welcome relief to John. His eyes had been watering since leaving the abbey because of the mothballs. This was down to being overcome by emotions, as the Duchy Herald would later have it. An usher, resplendent in a gold-braided tabard with the duchy’s coat of arms emblazoned on it, directed him up the steps to the château. John had walked up these steps before, and it hadn’t been difficult. Now weighed down with a coronet and wearing a surcoat, robe and cloak over his suit, not to mention the boots, spurs and sword, it became more of a challenge. It wasn’t that they were heavy but that they were bulky and/or flappy, and he wasn’t used to them. He’d only gone a few paces when the cloak tangled around the spurs, and he found himself launched up the steps in a most unducal fashion. The rolling down the steps to the bottom was also undignified. Unperturbed, John got up, replaced the coronet and dusted himself off. He tried again, this time holding up the cloak so he wouldn’t trip on it.

John kept reading. There was a lot about Sir Thomas Hawkwell, the founder of the duchy, and his part in the Hundred Years’ War. Far from being a noble and chivalrous knight, Sir Thomas was a murderous opportunist, mercenary, extortionist, protection racketeer, womaniser, routinely murdered peasants, took part in at least one massacre, was known to sack monasteries and holy places, had been excommunicated twice and had once punched the pope in Avignon. In short, he was a typical knight of the period, apart from punching the pope. Most knights didn’t get to do this. Towards the end of his life, Sir Thomas made peace with the papacy, which offered him a pension not to fight and gave him forgiveness for all the betrayals and wrongdoings he had committed. Still, it’s the myth that counts. The article continued with the foundation of the duchy, the period 1400-1800, the 19th, 20th and 21st centuries, geography, architecture, climate, population, religion, sports, culture, education, the flag, transport and relations with other countries. Tacked right at the end was a footnote about the duchy’s involvement in the Paradise Papers.

“Perhaps I wasn’t making myself understood. You seem unaware that your father was a duke.”
John thought about it. His father had never mentioned being a duke. It was the sort of thing you’d have expected him to say if it were the case.
“A duke, you say?”
“For tax purposes.”
“But still a duke.”
“Correct. The provenance of the title may seem a little irregular at first, but the late Mr Shoreditch researched the matter in great detail. The title is perfectly in order. Your father was a duke.”
John considered this statement for a moment. It had implications.
“Does that make me the next duke?”
“You are, or will be, once the necessary paperwork is complete and the relevant fees are remitted. I’m given to understand there is some urgency in the matter.”

From the library, John’s next port of call was the museum. He wanted to see these tanks the Duchy had acquired from the Americans after the Second World War. Situated a short walk from the centre of town, it was not what he expected when he’d first been driven past it by Madge when she’d given him a tour. Instead of an old building with dimly lit display cabinets and a whiff of the Victorian about it, this was bright and modern, and — there was no other way of putting it — huge. Dozens of cannons flanked the entrance. For a supposedly neutral country that hadn’t gone to war in over five hundred years, there were a lot of them. They weren’t small either. They were the sorts of cannons that would spoil the architecture of any nice castle an enemy might be defending and turn it into a shattered ruin. Inside the entrance were the two tanks. According to the information board in front of them, they were an M4 Sherman and an M26 Pershing. Both had the Duchy flag painted on their sides. Beside them were all sorts of Second World War equipment — howitzers, mortars, field guns, rifles, machine guns, grenade launchers — the kind you could quite happily arm a militia with. It all looked well-maintained and in full working order.
“I see you’re admiring our World War Two display,” said the portly, tweedy man with a walking stick who had appeared. “Reginald Eccleshall, Director of this establishment. We did meet briefly at your investiture, Your Grace.”

The carriage set off at a walking pace back to the town and was soon overtaken by a succession of cars and coaches determined to get there first. They needn’t have rushed. The way back was mostly uphill, and in places it would have been faster to get out and walk. Protocol being what it was dictated that proper ceremony be observed at all times. Getting out and pushing wasn’t an option. That was what the grooms, footmen and Town Guards were for.

Waiting for him outside the abbey after his investiture was the Duke’s State Coach. Drawn by four horses, the gilded and ornamented carriage was driven by two coachmen. It came with two walking grooms, four footmen and six members of the Town Guard. John recognised two of these as Stan and Eric. The carriage had not been designed for speed or comfort as John Maynard, 19th Duke of Vallonné Là-Bas, was to discover. It wasn’t so bad over the gravel, but once they hit the main road, it was a different story. The iron-bound wheels and slung leather suspension soon revealed the limitations of eighteenth-century coachbuilding technology. Its main purpose was not to convey a person from A to B in comfort. Its purpose was to convey the impression that the Person inside was Very Important. Capital V, I and P. It reeked of power and authority. It also reeked of mothballs from the ducal cloak John now wore. He tried to wind the window down. It didn't. There was no winder to wind or slider to slide to open it, and never had been.

“Thank you, Jeff,” said the newly appointed Acting Chief Executive Officer. “The next order of business relates to you, John.”
John sat up.
“I wondered why I was here.”
“Your father held a unique position outside the company, which we were able to leverage concerning certain encumbrances. Due to your inheritance and there being a limited window of opportunity before those advantages expire, this needs to be ratified without delay. There’s a private jet waiting for you, and a chauffeur will meet you at the other end. Your PA has all the details.”
“What now?”
Whatever had come out of James Lucas’s mouth had not made sense, as the look on John’s face showed.
“Time is of the essence. There are only two days until the full moon,” emphasised Lucas.
To bring the phase of the moon into a business conversation seemed a little odd to John. It was not the sort of thing he had heard before in the context of corporate governance.
“Ah, yes, the moon. Two days, you say.”
He paused.
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“The investiture.”
“What investiture?”

While John waited, he studied the stained glass windows and wondered which ones dated back to the fourteenth century. There was an assortment of saints and knights, some of whom he assumed were earlier dukes. The knights, that is, not the saints. From what he gathered, the earlier dukes, the first one for sure, were far from saintly. Hadn’t Sir Thomas put his fist into a pope’s face?
“Sir Edward Hawkwell, 4th Duke, before he came to a sticky end when the arquebus he was firing exploded,” said Abbot Hugo.
“He does look a bit startled,” said John.
“No, that’s just the artist. We don’t know his name, but he couldn’t do eyes for some reason. We’ve got more than a few startled saints dotted around. Hands he was exceptionally good at, but not eyes. The ones who don’t look startled are squinting. We’ve got one of Saint Michael that’s quite extraordinary. It looks like the poor chap has been peeling onions.”
“Not a chore you’d expect an archangel to be doing.”
“Hardly. Leader of the Armies of Heaven, yes. Commis chef, no. Archangels aside, I take it you didn’t come here to discuss stained glass windows.”

Madge continued the tour. As they drove, John began to understand how the Duchy had been overlooked by its neighbours for so long. Being tucked away in a valley with mountains on three sides and a river at the bottom made it easy to miss. Its position had no tactical advantage from a military point of view: the river crossing didn’t lead anywhere other than to the Duchy and would serve no purpose once you got there. Its location also made it easy to defend, not that there was anything worth pillaging if you succeeded in storming the town. Madge explained that the original castle had not been a huge stone fortress but a more rough-and-ready earth ramparts and timber palisade affair with a wooden keep. The château had been a step up in terms of resistance to attack and comfort. For one thing, you could light fires in it for warmth without the risk of accidentally burning the place down.

John put his shoe back on and went in search of another object. He wanted something more difficult than a toothbrush in a glass but easier than an Oxford brogue. He returned holding his room key. As has already been said, room keys at the Boot & Garter were not plastic cards. Room keys were actual keys, large enough to be used in self-defence. They were of a size that the phrase “The Duke of Vallonné in the Ducal Suite with the Room Key” could be substituted in a game of Cluedo and still make sense. They were solid wrought iron and not easy to wander off with or lose. A door locked with one of these keys stayed locked. This was ideal if you were under siege, but not so convenient if all you wanted to do was nip down to breakfast.

The Beefeater person, who John now saw was a rather stern-looking middle-aged woman, tutted and closed the door. He closed his eyes.
“Seatbelt!” came the instruction barked at him. He fumbled to find the belt and fasten himself in. The car started and sped away from the airport.
They left Geneva on the Swiss side. Once the suburbs gave way to countryside and they passed into France, he allowed himself to doze off. His eyes stayed shut until he was woken by the car passing over what he assumed was a cattle grid. Either that or it had got a flat tyre. The car sounded its horn. It was one of those old-fashioned “ahooga” ones.
“Come on, Bernard, open the gate. I haven’t got all day,” shouted his driver through the wound-down car window. The horn sounded again. There was a delay while this Bernard, whoever he was, appeared from the cottage that stood beside the white wooden gate that blocked the road. When Bernard did appear, he wore the same Beefeater attire, but with buttons undone and parts of it, including the hat, removed.
“I’m coming, Madge. Keep your hair on.”
“You knew I was coming back. You should have left it open.”
“What? And leave the border unsecured? I was having my tea.”

“What do you say, Mr Pirbright?” said John cheerily. “You’re my First Minister and know about these things.”
“We could prosecute Mr Lucas here in the Duchy or hand him over to Interpol and let them take care of matters,” said Pirbright. “Either way, tradition would say to clap him in irons and toss him into the dungeon while we wait for justice to take its course, and you know the Duchy, we do love our traditions. We have an oubliette we’ve not used for a while: one of the cold, nasty, damp ones which still has chains on the walls. They’re quite rusty, but we can leave you with a tin of metal polish and a rag to clean them up. It will give you something to do while you’re down there.”

“I don’t suppose our First Minister has seen his way to return his overdue library books yet?” said John.
“They’re still overdue. It’s been three years now, and the late fee isn’t getting any smaller.”
“I’ll be seeing him in the next few days while I’m here and will make it a point to remind him.”
“That’s good of you, Your Grace.”
“I could always pay it for him.”
“You could, but that wouldn’t return the books now, would it? Besides, the fine is getting a little on the high side.”
“How much is it?”
“Three and a quarter million pounds. Duchy pounds, that is.”
John did the sort of double take usually only done by cartoon characters who walk off a cliff and realise they are standing on thin air.
“Excuse me, what now?”
“Three and a quarter million.”
“Duchy pounds. How much is that in real money?”
“The Vallonnése pound is real money.”
“Isn’t that rather a lot?”
“They are rather late.”

“I know we have two football teams: Vallonné North End and Vallonné Athletic,” said John.
“Almost right, Your Grace. It’s Duchy North End.”
“Give me some credit. I was close.”
“Did you know they’ve been banned from playing each other for the past two hundred years?”
“I take it they didn’t get on well.”
“Hardly. Before there were proper rules, it was basically a pitched battle fought in the streets. Getting the ball to the goal was an afterthought. It always started friendly enough, but grudges from previous years invariably came out, and it would go downhill from there.”
“Or uphill if they were playing the other way,” quipped John.
“Very good, Your Grace.”
“Where were the goals?”
“One was north of the town where the cricket club is now. The other was close to where I have my allotment. It’s all changed now, of course. They have a stadium which they share. Athletic have it one weekend for their home matches and are in the French league. North End have it the other and play against the Swiss.”
“Have either of them ever won anything?”
“Athletic came close a few years ago, but no. Neither of them is any good if I’m being honest.”
“What should I say if I’m asked which team I support?”
“I say I’m with Athletic against the French and North End against the Swiss. It saves a lot of arguments.”

When he arrived at the park, John took a moment to admire the display of ornamental bedding plants with their vibrant, almost gaudy colours at the entrance. Not being rushed to be in a particular place or get to a meeting meant he could take his time. When he’d had enough of marigolds, pansies and petunias, John continued his walk. He strolled with no end in mind other than to wander and see where his feet would take him. Today was a day to stop and smell the roses, and the rose garden would fit the bill nicely. He had a rough idea of where it was and made his way there, pausing now and then to take in a view or inspect one of the statues dotted around the park.
The rose garden sat inside a walled area. John sat on a bench in front of a border filled with what, according to the labels, were hybrid tea roses. They came in a wide range of reds, pinks, yellows, oranges and whites. Bees flitted between the blooms, taking full advantage of the floral banquet laid on for free by the parks department. John remembered that Madge had said the duchess had grown roses and had one named after her. He got to his feet to study the labels more closely. After several minutes of scrutiny, none that he could see were called anything even remotely connected to the duchess or the Duchy.
John returned to the bench.
“The Duchy,” he mused. He was a duke. He had a duchy. It had all happened so fast. He was now, what had Wikipedia called it? The constitutional monarch of a sovereign microstate?

The car drove on along the winding road that led up to the town of Vallonné Là-Bas. It was a picturesque sort of place that seemed frozen in time. It was as if the twentieth century had passed by unobserved and the twenty-first century hadn’t noticed its presence either. There were little details, the roads being tarmacked for one, that suggested this wasn’t the case. The Duchy had been one of the first towns in the area to have adopted electricity, indoor plumbing and all the other modern conveniences we now take for granted. It simply didn’t advertise the fact. It didn’t do advertising in the modern sense at all. Shop fronts looked like something out of the 1950s, and there were no high street chain stores.
Now that John had perked up, he took a more active interest in his surroundings.
“There aren’t many cars around, Madge. Can I call you Madge?”
“It’s Mrs Whittaker to you, and no, there aren’t many about this time of evening.”
Not counting the one he was in, the only other car he could see stood parked in front of the château, which looked exactly like he remembered from the leaflet. Built of stone like most of the rest of the town, it had round towers with conical roofs and an impressive entrance with the Duchy flag hanging over it.

“…And then there is the matter of the Duchy.”
PJ Purkiss of Purkiss, Ipcress and Shoreditch, solicitors, sat back in his chair. Before him lay a desk covered with deeds and papers. The man sitting opposite now seemed confused. It was turning out to be one of those will readings.
“Duchy? What duchy?”
“Mr Maynard, your late father used some, how can I say it, unconventional legal and financial devices. He was rather keen to avoid the attention of the revenue services when it came to matters of taxation.”
This came as something of a revelation to John Maynard. He’d only gone in to have his dearest departed’s last will and testament read to him to find out how much he was getting. Now he was on the receiving end of some as yet unspecified disclosure about taxes and a duchy.
“I don’t follow you.”
“Indeed. Perhaps it is for the best.”
“Quite.”
PJ Purkiss continued.
“However, the fact remains that certain details need to be settled.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
John Maynard had no idea what was happening but wanted to give the impression that he did.
“Forgive me for saying,” said Purkiss, “but you seem unaware that your late father was not who he said he was.”

The Ducal Suite was as grand as the name suggested. Dominating the oak-panelled room was a massive four-poster bed with an ornamental carved headboard. Each corner of the room had a massive Duchy of Vallonné Là-Bas flag resting in it. A huge chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the number of suits of plate armour standing around the room made it look like it had been invaded by a detachment of knights from the Middle Ages. Shields with the Duchy’s coat of arms hung from the walls, flanked by an array of weaponry that could have armed a small garrison if push came to shove.
John had no sooner sat down on the bed when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace. I’ve brought your suitcase. Is there anything else you’ll be wanting? I can bring you up a spot of supper if you don’t want to come down to the lounge. The steak and ale pie is nice, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“That sounds tempting,” said John, “but please, none of this ‘Your Grace’ business. My name’s John. And yours is…?”
The young woman smoothed her apron.
“Phyllis, Your Grace. Phyllis Boot… John…”

John went through to the lounge where the game of Cow was taking place. Two pairs of elderly gents sat opposite each other at a table with a bottle of Mr Lambert’s Duchy gin in the middle.
“Do you mind if I watch?” asked John.
“Not at all, young ‘un. Pull up a chair,” said the man holding a deck of cards.
“You do know I’m the duke.”
“Aye.”
“That’s all right then.”
John watched as the dealer, an old boy with a magnificent white moustache and iridescent emerald green cravat, went round the table and dealt each player nine cards, then placed the remaining cards face down out of play.
“For the duke’s benefit, mardy hens are on the loose, jokers are drunk, and the duke is dead — not you, of course, Your Grace — long live the duchess!”
The four old boys raised their glasses in a toast. John raised his soda and lime.
“To the duchess. God bless her and all who sail in her.”

As he worked his way through the next few weeks, John began to conclude that the duke didn’t do all that much. Wednesdays were always Council days, except for the third Wednesday in the month, when it was held on a Thursday. Its business was varied, but it would have been a stretch to call these sessions “attending to the great affairs of state”. They seemed to be about more trivial things, like whether the bus service out of the Duchy should run on the hour or at four minutes past. It was not immediately obvious why four minutes would make a difference or why it was important. It took seven meetings to reach a compromise of two minutes past the hour. Admittedly, other business had been transacted. It hadn’t been seven meetings given over entirely to the matter of the bus departure time. Even so, it had been a protracted discussion.
The only newsworthy item so far had been about fundraising for a new cricket pavilion. The old one had burned down the previous summer after a barbecue party had got out of hand. The duke had donated £25 and provided an assortment of prizes for the raffle. Most of the main stories were about the various fundraisers the cricket club had been organising. These included a sponsored bed push from the town to the abbey and back, a Cow tournament and a talent contest. The three-legged egg and spoon race around the Duchy’s borders had to be abandoned after none of the entrants made it past halfway before giving up. The most unusual event had been a mass game of Statues in the town square, entrance fee sixpence. The winner had been a Miss Wilkinson, 13, who won a three-month supply of ale from the abbey. This was changed to a three-month supply of ginger beer once it was realised how old she was, despite her father’s protests.

Down on the high street, Dave Ansell brought Sukie to a stop, or rather Dave’s wife Annie brought Sukie to a stop as he was busy shovelling coal. Even steam engines must obey the rules of the road, and traffic lights on red mean stop, no matter who is driving. He took a moment to check the various gauges, dials and levels. The pressure was good; they had plenty of water, lots of coal, and nothing was sticking, overheating or running hot. It was about as good as it gets. Looking down at the people who had appeared on the pavement, it never failed to please him to see the big grins on their faces. Wherever they went, smiling people came out to watch Sukie go past. The same could not be said of motorists. The ones coming the other way tended to point and smile. Dave could imagine the expressions on the faces of those stuck behind him. They would pull over to let them pass when they could, but some people are simply impatient. The odd one would flick the Vs to show their displeasure at being held up. Dave always made a point of smiling and waving at these people. If they wanted to make something of it, he was in a steamroller and likely to come off better in any confrontation.

It was Friday evening in Old Hall Park. A stage had been set up for the Victorian Weekend, and an old-time music hall variety show was in full swing. It had drawn a good crowd, much to Mrs Duckworth’s delight.
Nelly Noodles and her Amazing Dancing Poodles were performing. Nelly Noodles was actually Brenda Dawson, a part-time dental assistant, and the poodles weren’t so much dancing as wandering around looking bewildered. Half of them weren’t even poodles. The only dancing going on was by Brenda, and her dance was more like someone with itching powder down their neck being poked with a cattle prod. To give her her due, it was a spirited performance marred only by one of the poodles, a cocker spaniel, cocking its leg and giving the footlights a watering.

“This won’t do,” said Mrs Duckworth. “This won’t do at all. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to pack up your stall, Laura. This is a strictly Victorian event, 1837 to 1901. The WI is out by fourteen years by my reckoning.”
“It’s not my stall; it’s Mrs Harris’s. She said something like this might happen. She said to say that although the first meeting in Britain didn’t happen until 1915, the WI began in 1897 in Canada, which is inside the cutoff period. I think the stall will be staying where it is, don’t you?”
“Which rather proves my point,” said Mrs Duckworth. “It might have started in Canada, but if the first British meeting wasn’t until 1915, it isn’t Victorian here.”
“Mrs Harris thought you might say that. She asked me to explain that the idea was based on the British concept of Women’s Guilds, which were created by the Reverend Charteris. The Valehouse Women’s Guild was established in 1889 as one of the early adopters. It later became part of the WI, so you see its roots are well and truly Victorian. I believe the term is game, set and match.”
Mrs Duckworth turned an interesting shade of puce at this.
“Come on, Martin. I won’t stand here to be insulted like this.”
“It was hardly an insult,” said Martin. “She simply stated the facts.”
“Facts that you should have checked before I was made to look a fool.”
“Yes, Betty.”

An arm emerging from a lake, holding a sword which is pointing straight up. The blade has a flash of green light on it.

By the time they’d finished breakfast and hitched up the living van, the pressure had built enough for them to set off. It wasn’t a long route, but they had a few detours to stop by several pubs despite what they’d said to Jacko’s wife, Jayne. The first stop was the Fox and Hounds (a quick pull over to check that Polly was running smoothly as they’d only been going for ten minutes). Next came the Royal Oak (to drop off the now repaired lung tester). Then came the Wheatsheaf (oil up the bearings and a half of shandy because being drunk in charge of a steam engine is a serious offence), followed by the Spring Tavern (top off the water and they did nice pies which they could have for lunch later). It was with some reluctance that they’d passed the Palatine, the Old Tup, the Albion, Masons Arms and the Drovers, but they couldn’t stop at every one. When they passed a pub that had long since been closed, they removed their caps as a mark of respect. There were a lot of bygone pubs to pay their respects to.
“I got thrown out of that one on my eighteenth birthday,” said Jacko as they stopped at what had once been the Ring O’ Bells and was now an estate agents, “which were funny as I’d been drinking in there on and off since I were seventeen.”
“Why’d they throw you out?” asked Alf.
“They found out I was eighteen,” said Jacko.
“But that’s the legal drinking age.”
“They said it were for all the other times I weren’t.”
“Fair enough,” said Alf.

Two dishes laden with sushi, one of maki and one of nigiri

“As you say, you don’t need to make a decision right now. Let me show you the Egyptian gallery.”
“I wouldn’t have thought the Egyptians would have figured much in Duchy history.”
“They don’t, but the 14th Duke was quite the collector. It was all the rage with him. He had cratefuls of the stuff shipped over from Egypt. It was in his will that he was to be embalmed and wrapped up like a mummy when he went. He was the one who died in the aeroplane crash in 1921. He even made it into a pyramid. It’s a small one by Ancient Egyptian standards. It’s in the grounds of the abbey, if you’re interested. They all are.”
“All who?”
“All the dukes, well, the Hawkwell ones. The 17th, the American one, wasn’t so much buried as scraped up. A grand piano fell on the poor chap. Squashed him flat as a pancake. He’s buried in Texas. And then there’s your father.”

The concert was set to be a last night of the proms affair with a mishmash of music from the Victorian period, some of it classical, some of it music hall. Martin Pemberton had got there early and spent the past hour going over the programme with a fine-tooth comb. He did not want a repetition of the dressing down he’d been subjected to following the WI debacle. He might not be able to get the programme changed, but he could forewarn Mrs Duckworth and, in doing so, save his skin. His blood had run cold when the first thing he saw was that the finale was going to be the 1812 Overture. 1812 was far too early to be Victorian, and with the year in the title, Betty was certain to notice; she couldn’t not. Queen Victoria hadn’t even been born then and wouldn’t be for another seven years. Searching on his phone, he looked up details about the overture. His panic subsided when he discovered that it had been written in 1880 and performed two years later. It was okay. It was Victorian.

“May have been the losing side. Still not convinced it was the wrong one.” Firefly

As he was examining the contents of a box full of cast iron oddments that may once have been part of a mangle, Jacko felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, would you be Jack Kinder?”
“Who’s he when he’s at home?”
“I’m looking for someone called Jacko,” said the man who had done the tapping. “The chap selling old hand tools across the way pointed you out.”
“That would be me then,” said Jacko.
“Why didn’t you just say it was you?” asked the man.
“The only people who call me by my full name are usually ones who are after something or come bearing bad news, sometimes both. The tax man and officials from the council spring to mind.”
“I’m neither of those.”
The man held out his hand to shake.
“Ellis Lowry. You might have heard of me.”
“Lowry, eh? The forger fellow?” said Jacko.
“Used to be,” said Ellis sheepishly. “Four years of bed and board at the Strangeways Hotel changed all that. I do museum quality reproductions now, all strictly legitimate.”

A picture of the smouldering remains of a stone circle. Light grey dust is blowing off one of the stones. In the foreground is a battered looking minibus.

Have you seen the duck pond?”
“We stopped by on the way,” said Annie. “It’s in quite a state.”
“It couldn’t be us filling up that’s caused it to drop so low. The engines couldn’t have drawn that much off,” said Jacko.
“Some of these old ornamental ponds were fitted with a plug for when they needed to drain them,” Alf chimed in. “Someone might have loosened it.”
“I doubt we’d have disturbed it enough for that,” said Dave. “All we do is chuck a hose in.”
“Well, whatever the cause, if we want to be invited back next year, we need to fill it up sharpish before anyone notices,” said Jacko.
“And how exactly do we do that?” asked Alf.
“Can I draw your attention to the water main Jacko’s just filled up with?” said Annie. “We’ll need to beg, steal or borrow as much hose as we can to get it all the way to the pond.”
“Aye, I reckon it’ll work,” said Jacko, “as long as nobody from the water board starts wondering where all their water’s gone.”
“We’ll be long gone by then,” said Dave.

As far as Jacko was concerned, Sunday breakfast at a steam rally was a bacon sandwich cooked on a shovel in the firebox. It was a custom that stretched back to the first time he’d taken Polly to a steam rally. He and Alf had lived on bacon sandwiches and jacket potatoes the whole time. After he’d met Jayne, he’d got the living van and its stove, and the menu had expanded to include baked beans. Then came the infamous burnt potatoes debacle. The jacket potatoes were left in the smokebox for far too long and came out indistinguishable from lumps of charcoal. They had fish and chips that evening. Jayne put her foot down and insisted that what they would be eating from now on would be more than bacon sandwiches, jacket potatoes and baked beans. That didn’t mean the occasional addition of fish and chips to the menu either. It needn’t be cordon bleu, but it had to be a step up from cooking with the traction engine. Jacko had been happy to go along with this, as even bacon butties and jackets got a bit boring after a while. As far as Sunday mornings went, the traditional bacon sandwich was non-negotiable.

Four freshly baked baguettes cooling down on a wire rack. The crusts have burst and the crusty loaves are a golden brown.

“Come here and look at this,” said Linda.
Becky got up from her desk and went over to where Linda was sitting.
“What is it?”
“Just take a look and tell me what you think.”
Linda scrolled through the email for her.
“Well, it’s an improvement on Nathaniel Fortescue,” said Becky. “I like the airship. What’s atmotic?”
“I’ve no idea. Something to do with the atmosphere?” suggested Linda.
“It looks good.”
“Yes, but where am I in it?”
“In the gondola I suppose.”
“No, I mean Lady Eleanora Crumpsall.”
“In the first class lounge? Or if this new character of his is an Italian professor, you could be his glamorous research assistant, Isadora di Linguini.”
“Linguini?”
“Off the top of my head. I had it for tea last night and it’s Italian like the professor. I’m sure you can come up with a better name.”
“You do realise he’s going to do his terrible Italian accent if he develops this character.”
“Oh,” said Becky.

“I’ve got us a place at the Victorian Weekend as marshals.”
Instead of the delighted reaction he was expecting, the so-called Sir Sowerby got sighs and frowns.
“We won’t have time to be marshals,” snapped Lady Eleanora. “We’ll be too busy with the convention.”
“I didn’t say it was us being the marshals, did I?” said Sir Sowerby. “We can get attendees to do it if they want to. There’s a group coming from Bristol that I reckon will be up for it, and there’s the Birmingham lot. They’re always good for a lark.”
“How did you manage that?” asked the Brigadier-Colonel. “She hates our guts.”
The man pretending to be Sir Sowerby Crumpsall slipped into a well-practised plummy voice.
“Because, dear boy, the old girl thought she was talking to Sir Sowerby Crumpsall. Persuaded her of the merits of accepting a kind offer from the Esteamed Company of Thermodynamic Artificers to prevent the steam engines from frightening the horses, don’t you know.”

An extract from "The Scriptorium Chronicle". In the middle of the page is an illustration done in the style of a medieval manuscript. It shows four people in tunics and leggings, two in red and two in green. The player in red to the left is kicking a football, while in the centre, a red player and a green player are wrestling.

The text reads: "3 July § Now that matins is over and there’s not much else to do, the scribes are watching football on the telly and lamenting the state of the game. Considering it’s a game played between two villages, there are hardly any players, no scrums around the player with the ball, and there’s no way the goalposts are a mile apart.

"They are amazed at how many players keep tripping over nothing and sustain dreadful leg injuries, only for them to be instantly cured by a sponge with miraculous healing qualities. Modern medicine is truly a wonder.

"The scribes remain confused by the rules. How are you supposed to grapple the ball away if you can’t use your hands? Kneeing the fellow in the groin doesn’t seem to be allowed either."

“Can you put it to one side for me?” he asked one chap he’d known from way back. “I’ve got to square it with the Mrs first.”
“Since when have you ever had to ask before you bought anything?”
“She’s after a new kitchen and has made it clear that she’ll sell off some of my other stuff to pay for it if I don’t.”
“She wouldn’t…”
“You don’t know ‘er like I do. She would. There are brochures and everything. She’s had quotes.”
With the pressure gauge safe for now, Jacko resumed his perusal of the dealers’ stalls. It wasn’t about finding anything in particular but looking for bits and bobs that may come in handy, although when and for what purpose was open to debate. It pleased him to see that Dave and Annie had been able to round up a good number of dealers, some from quite far afield. As well as the larger, better-known ones, there were smaller, more specialised ones, and people who looked like they’d cleaned out their late granddad’s shed and found some interesting stuff in a cardboard box that might be of use to someone. This latter variety fell into two groups: those of the “I don’t know what it is, but make me an offer” type and those who thought it was worth far more than it was. If ever a Sumner & Ellison part was going to turn up, it was probably going to have been in someone’s garden shed.

The same picture as before (a boy looking through a telescope), but now with the outline filled in to make a silhouette.