2 - Emergency Council
On the north side of the hall the eighteenth green sat well protected. A strategically placed crescent bunker guarded the approach from long hitters who might be tempted to try and take on the green in two. But even the sensible lay up left plenty of work to do as any wayward approach, whether faded or pulled could find itself in one of the twin sandy hazards. To the left of the green lurked a pack of three evil pot bunkers whilst to the right awaited an even worse fate. It was into this bunker that a man descended a flight of worn wooden steps cut into the back of the trap. By the time he had moved off the last step his head was lower than the green.
“No pressure!” called down one of the other three men who stood with arms folded, looking down into the sandy pit. “Your partner’s already had six, so it’s down to you to save the day.”
“No problem Bill,” replied one of the players. “Pressure’s his middle name, isn’t that right Bob?” he called, his hand cupped around his mouth. All that drifted back up in reply was a grunt.
The player’s ball had come to rest in the centre of the hazard approximately eight feet from the sheer riveted face of the bunker. Methodically the man addressed the ball and then waggled his feet so that they sank into the soft surface to purchase a firm stance, the yellow sand banking around the soles of his white shoes as he took a practice swing.
“Looking good!” encouraged his partner from above.
Once he was ready he carefully hovered his club above the surface, oblivious to the movement of his two opponents who instinctively crouched in the hope of catching him touching the sand. He stood stock still for an age before eventually drawing back the club. His backswing was smooth and confident to the tip of the arc but then, just at the start of his downward stroke there was a slight pause and he immediately decelerated on the way down. At the last moment he sensed his error and suddenly forced his wrists forward in the forlorn hope of regaining momentum. But it was too late. The sand wedge broke the surface weakly and as he snatched through the second part of the swing the club head struck the ball not just once at impact, but again as he followed through.
“Double hit!” exclaimed one of his opponents in delight as his partner groaned and put his head in his hands.
“And an Adolf, that’s a reverse bit, another fifty pence,” cried Bill joyfully.
“Since when did an Adolf become a reverse bit?” moaned Bob from the bottom of the bunker, his ball now resting up against the steep face.
“And another for dissent!” bellowed Bill, struggling to contain himself. “Nobody likes to see that,” he teased harmoniously with his partner.
“Alright you’ve had your fun, now what do I do?” called up Bob, causing all eyes to turn straight to Bill.
The smile was instantly wiped from the face of the Competition Secretary as he slipped seamlessly into rules mode. “Rule 14; striking the ball. Sub section four; striking the ball more than once. If a player’s club strikes the ball more than once in the course of a stroke, the player must count the stroke and add a penalty stroke, making two strokes in all.”
Bob swept a pointed finger back down the course and began to count his shots. “One, two short of the fairway bunker, three in, four plus penalty stroke makes five,” he concluded as he bent and took another look at his ball resting up against the bunker face. “I haven’t got a hope in hell. What are my options?”
Focus again fell on Bill. “Well obviously you can try and play out sideways or evoke rule 28, sub sections a, b or c.”
“In English?”
“You’re buggered and we’re two quid up!” jumped in Bill’s partner.
Bill ignored the jape. “The player may deem his ball unplayable at any place on the course and under penalty of one stroke may either, a, play a ball as nearly as possible at the spot from which the original ball was last played.”
“Which got me in this mess in the first place. Option B?”
“Drop a ball behind the point where the ball lay, keeping that point directly between the hole and the spot on which the ball is dropped, with no limit to how far behind that point the ball may be dropped.”
“Too complicated. C?”
“Drop a ball within two club lengths of the spot where the ball lay, but not nearer the hole.”
“Promising,” said Bob as he did a rough measurement with a flip of his sand wedge to see if the edge of the bunker came within reach.
“But alas,” continued Bill, with the trace of a grin on his face as he saw the hope on Bob’s face, “if the unplayable ball is in a bunker, the player may proceed under Clause a, b or c. But if he elects either b or c then the ball must be dropped in,” he said with emphasis, “the bunker.”
Bill’s partner wasn’t going to let Bob off lightly. “Or of course rule 28, sub section D,” he suggested.
“Which is?” asked Bob brightly, this time the optimism spreading to his voice.
“Option D, the player is plain simple buggered.”
“Yes, very funny,” groaned Bob, “two club lengths it is then,” he concluded before flipping his club above the surface twice as a measuring stick and planting a tee peg in the sand to indicate his dropping position. Holding his ball out at arm’s length he let it drop from his fingers and winced as it buried itself into the soft surface. Again he labored over the pre-shot routine before slowly drawing back the club. Then, just as he reached the top of his backswing the peace was broken by the howl of a World War Two siren. This time he thinned the ball straight into the face of the bunker. For a few seconds it seemed to stick in the wall between two sods before eventually it dropped back into the sand with a surrendering plop.
“What the blazes?!” screamed Bob as he hurled his sand iron out of the bunker. The three men scrambled for cover as the club whooped over their heads.
“If that’s one of you idiots playing silly buggers then all bets are off!” screamed Bob still down in the sand.
“I’m afraid this has got nothing to do with us this time,” replied Bill, looking up at the outline of a man on the hall roof. “Journal twenty-four, entry fifty-seven: Upon the death of the Earl Orbury, the Club Secretary shall call a meeting of the Orbury Emergency Council by sounding the air raid siren stationed on the roof.”
For a moment there was stunned silence.
“His Lordship, dead?” asked Bob as he climbed out of the bunker.
“So it would seem. Unless of course this is some kind of drill, but I’m sure I would have known if that were the case. Gentlemen, I am afraid I must bid you farewell, I am summoned to Council.” With that he left his ball and trolley where they lay and walked towards the haunting sound.
Bill Muir took the southwest stairs and climbed from the lower level changing rooms to the upper Committee Wing. He could hear the hubbub of voices as he rushed through the empty Members Reading Rooms and on into the Library. The small gathering was clustered into separate groups. He scanned the room, trying to catch sight of the secretary.
“I came as quickly as I could,” he puffed.
“Thank you Bill,” replied Chives as the newcomer joined him at the far end of the room, “I think you may be the last.”
“Not a drill then?” asked the Competition Secretary hopefully.
“I’m afraid not, I’m sorry to say that this is the real thing.”
“You have Bramley’s book?” enquired Bill.
Chives nodded and pulled a small leather bound book from the inside pocket of his blazer. On the cover, embossed in gold were the words: ‘Upon the Death of Earl Orbury’.
“Check the list,” prompted Bill.
Chives carefully opened the black cover and turned the first couple of blank pages until he came to a long handwritten list. “Gather members of the Orbury Emergency Council,” he read, “made up as follows-”
“You read them out and I’ll spot them,” interrupted Bill.
“Key members of the Golf Committee,” went on Chives, “Club Secretary.”
r /> “Check,” confirmed Bill, pointing a pistol finger back at the reader.
“Competition Secretary.”
“Double check,” said Bill, this time with both thumbs curling back at himself.
“The Committee Secretary and Club Captain.”
Bill stood on tiptoes to look over the heads of a group standing in the centre of the room, screening those behind. “Yep, Brian and Spencer over by the window.”
“Excellent,” continued Chives moving on down the list, “now, hall personnel. Golf Professional?”
“Check,” said Bill, catching sight of the wonky bow tie.
“Steward? I can’t hear the siren anymore so he should be here by now,” said Chives glancing up with impeccable timing to see Brunswick enter the room.
“Head Chef and Master Housekeeper?”
Bill scanned the room, raising fingers as he crossed the men off. “Check, check.”
“That just leaves the estate Staff. Head Greenkeeper?”
“Check.”
“Gamekeeper and Estates Manager?”
“Double check,” confirmed Bill.
“And finally Tenant Farm Manager?”
“All present and correct, Jim.”
Chives took a deep breath as he prepared to address the Council. “Right then, let’s get this sad affair underway,” he said to Bill as he nodded across to Brunswick. The Steward picked up the prepared knife and crystal glass and brought them together in a volley of high-pitched chimes. The sound cut through the conversation and brought immediate silence to the room.
“Gentlemen of The Orbury Emergency Council, it is with a heavy heart that I confirm your suspicions and bring you grave news. This is not a drill. Earl Orbury is dead.” Despite knowing that the siren was positioned to herald this exact piece of information, heads around the Library still dropped at the confirmation. Chives began to read verbatim from the little book. “The Council is hereby instructed to proceed under the endorsed statute of this journal numbered two which was ratified by the seventh Earl Orbury in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty-one. This statute is drafted to bring stability and leadership to the estate in the dark days between the death of an Earl and the heir taking title.”
Chives felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise as he prepared to speak the words he had always suspected he was destined to utter. “By the power invested in this statute I, James Arthur Reginald Chives,” these words he inserted where a gap had been left in the text, “Club Secretary, hereby take power of attorney to control and manage the estate and the title handover to the benefit of the estate. Unless rescinded since the date of the journal entry then these powers will be by way of the instrument signed under seal and held by Messrs. Raffles, Pinkerton & Daughter. It is my duty therefore to announce that as stated in the letters patent granted by King George I, the title of Earl Orbury is limited to the first Earl and his heirs male of the body and thus I hereby name his eldest grandson Viscount Waffham as his heir apparent and that he should, in seven days time, appear before Messrs. Raffles, Pinkerton & Daughter to validate his ancestry to the Earldom in order for the title to be formerly bestowed.”
A ripple of murmurs spread across the room. Chives gave them a few seconds before reading on. “Under these powers I promise to follow the precedent laid down in fact and seal to ensure that the handover is conducted thus…” he turned the page. “Four days hence from this day to prepare the estate to honour the heir apparent by way of hosting Bramley’s Challenge and the Feast of the Orbury Flock.” Again the room bristled with low voices. Chives didn’t pause this time, but instead raised his voice a few decibels. “Five days hence of this day to prepare the body of the late Earl Orbury to lay in state for twenty-four hours in the Coral Hall and install the heir apparent for the overnight vigil. Six days hence to lay to rest the body of the late Earl Orbury in consecrated ground on the estate. Seven days hence to accompany the heir apparent to Messrs. Raffles, Pinkerton & Daughter to honour the terms of proof and intent required by the letters patent. Upon inheritance of title I hereby confirm that all powers and duties under this instrument will end.”
Chives closed the book, to complete and utter silence. When it broke it flipped from deathly hush to pandemonium, every man in the room firing questions at the secretary, their voices rising to compete with their neighbor. At the eye of the storm Chives felt himself being pushed back as the men clambered to be heard.
“Gentlemen, please!” he tried, unable to get his voice over the hullabaloo, “silence if you will,” he continued in vain.
In the end Brunswick came to his rescue and once again tapped the goblet with the knife. The trill sound cut the room to soundlessness once more.
“I know that you all have a million and one questions that effect both you and your staff,” said Chives, “and I am aware that I need to sit down with you all individually to start planning your roles and duties for the upcoming days of - of...” he struggled in the moment to find the correct word.
“Ceremony,” suggested Bill at his side.
“Yes exactly, thank you Bill. The upcoming days of ceremony. I know that the coming week will not be easy as we plan to not only bid our fond farewell to his Lordship and his wonderful long, long round, but also to ensure that The Orbury moves seamlessly into the next chapter of its fine and illustrious history. To ensure that the character and tradition it has built up over centuries remain undimmed.”
“With Viscount Waffham running the show?” called out one of the staff managers. “Hold on to yer hats I say, anything could happen!”
“I’m sure the Viscount will rise to the challenge and ensure the legacy of his grandfather remains true and proud for another generation,” came back Chives unconvincingly, a touch of dampness rising on his forehead as the image of Lamplighter popped into his head.
“More like the last generation!” called out another, producing a chorus of knowing titters around the room.
“That’s enough,” said Chives, “His Lordship is barely cold. Now is not the time for merriment. I now have the unenviable duty of trying to get hold of Viscount Waffham and imparting the terrible news.” That brought a sombre tone back to the Library.
“But worry not gentlemen, for we are in good hands,” went on Chives, waving the small black book in the air, “we have Bramley’s trusted guide to get us through these dark days. Every detail of the plan from the recipe of the Orbury Flock to the hymns sung at the funeral is all in here. He was Steward when they laid out the course and saw out six Earls himself until the damn Nazis got him. It’s tried and tested. Rest assured I will follow it to the letter and sit down with you all to go over every last detail. We must start with Bramley’s challenge. I will need the Competition Secretary, the Captain, Head Greenkeeper, Head Chef, Gamekeeper and Golf Professional in the Committee Room in one hour please.” As soon as he finished the Library fell to clamorous chitchat.
Chives turned and placed his hand on Bill’s shoulder. “Perhaps you would accompany me for the phone call,” he said glancing around to check that no one else was listening before whispering conspiratorially in his friends ear, “there is a...” not for the first time he found himself struggling to select the appropriate word, “complication,” he said at last.
“What sort of complication?” asked Bill.
“Shh, not here,” panicked Chives, “my office,” he suggested.
The secretary’s office was located in the south face of the Committee Wing, just off the Library. The two men left the other gentlemen behind and slipped into the smaller room, closing the door behind them for privacy. Bill Muir accepted the offer of the seat that Chives had placed in front of the desk.
“So? What complication?” asked the Competition Secretary with a frown once both men were seated.
“One of rather unfortunate timing,” replied Chives uncomfortably.
“Go on.”
“Well it all started with this,” said the secretary as he unlocked a drawe
r in his desk, withdrew the folded newspaper and passed it across the beaten leather surface between them.
“Blimey, whose that? Is that Alex? And isn’t that...?” he turned the paper to get a better look at the face, “that’s Johnnie Lamplighter!” He looked up to find Chives looking ashen. “What have you done?” he asked.
“We did what was right for the club,” replied the secretary.
“Whose we?”
“A quorum of the Committee.”
“How many?” demanded Bill.
“There were four of us, it’s enough. You’re not the only one to know the rules,” defended Chives.
“Please tell me you haven’t slung him out, not now, not right after this,” said Bill, indicating in the direction of the Library.
“This,” stressed Chives, “hadn’t happened yet.”
“So let me get this straight,” said Bill, “you’ve just expelled the most trusted and loyal friend of the man who, on the very same day, just inherited the club, the estate, the hall and all who sail in her?”
Chives nodded mutely.
“Can you rescind it, does anyone know?”
“Lamplighter knows, I’ve already called him to impart the news.”
“Which means he will have got straight on to Viscount Waffham, the man you’ve now got to call to tell him he is now the Earl.”
Chives shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“You do realize that he is going to be livid, incandescent!” went on the Competition Secretary.
“I am aware of the possibility,” squirmed Chives.
“Well rather you than me,” said Bill, sliding over the telephone. “I suggest you get it over and done with right now.”
“Agreed,” whispered Chives, closing his eyes, “I have delayed long enough. After all, duty is duty.”
The two men sat in silence as Chives turned the dial of the old telephone. The soft ratchet of the returning disc clicked out the digits of the mobile number listed in the open address book. Chives cleared his throat and put the receiver to his ear.
“Good afternoon Sir,” he said as soon as the mobile was answered at the other end, “this is Jim Chives from The Orbury. I call with ba...” he suddenly yanked the handset away with a grimace as a tinny tirade blasted out of the Bakelite earpiece.
Tentatively he brought the telephone back to his ear to try again. “I’m sorry, you don’t understand. Your grandfa...” but again his words were drowned out by the rampant diatribe at the other end.
Even from the other side of the desk Bill could hear a string of obscenities venting out of the small speaker. Chives pulled nervously at his stiff collar and tried to get some air down his sweating neck.
“Please Sir,” he begged again, trying for a third time, “it’s your grandfather. He’s...” but there was an audible click from the other end of the line, “...dead,” finished Chives in barely a whisper, knowing that the man on the other end had already gone. Still holding the phone to his ear he pushed down the pips and redialed the number.
Bill was holding his breath as he strained to hear the faint sound of far off ringing.
“Sorry,” stated a familiar voice, “but I am unable to take your call at the moment. But if you leave a message-”
“Damn!” cursed Chives, putting his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s gone straight to answer phone.”
“Then leave a message!” prompted Bill.
“Saying what? Your grandfather’s dead? Hardly the right way to do such a thing,” he said as he panicked and cut off the call.
“Jim, you’ve got no choice. You’ll have to leave him a message. He must find out before he gets back here tomorrow.”
“I know Bill, I know. I-I just wasn’t prepared for the answer phone.” The Club Secretary took a deep breath and then let the carbon dioxide out slowly to try and calm himself. “I’ll just say that I have grave family news and that he must call me immediately. That should soften the blow.”
He dialed the number for a third time, rehearsing the correct words in his head.
“If that’s you again Chives then you can stick this phone right where the sun don’t shine!” The angry voice made Chives jump in his seat. Bill leapt up and ran around the table to put his ear next to the telephone.
“Oh V-Viscount,” stammered Chives now in a state of utter confusion, “I-I w-was expecting the answer phone.”
“Save your breath Chives,” came the retort before the caller had time to gather his thoughts, “I’ve changed my plans and I’m heading back on the train now.”
“But Sir,” pleaded Chives, desperately trying to interrupt.
“I’ll be there in less than two hours and you’d better have a bloody good explanation for all this crap about Johnnie or you won’t hear the last of this, do you hear?” At that the line went dead again.
“Bloody hell,” cursed the secretary as he frantically redialed for a fourth time. This time all that came back through the earpiece was a long piercing tone.
“He’s turned his phone off,” said Bill.
“Bugger.”
Back in the Committee Room the Captain, Vice Captain and Committee Secretary sat huddled together at one end of the long table.
“Wight then gents,” said BSJ, “why don’t we get pwoceedings underway whilst Bill and Jim are tied up. So, Spencer, can you dwaw the home player and Minty you dwaw the away. This is the draw for the Orbury Singles match play. Away player to offer thwee dates to the home player. In the event of the tie not being played by the deadline then the home player goes thwough. Take us away Mr. Captain, Sir.”
Spencer Cartwright plunged his hand into the black velvet bag and fondled with the little balls inside for a few seconds before extracting one between his thumb and forefinger.
“Twenty-six,” he said, reading the white numbers on the ball.
“Bristol Rovers,” joked Minty in his impeccable voice, before plunging his own hand into the bag.
“Leonard Colesham,” said BSJ meanwhile as he wrote the first player’s name onto the top line of the draw sheet laid out before him.
“Will play?” prompted Spencer, waiting for his vice to select a number.
“Number sixteen.”
“Notts County,” finished the Captain as both he and his Vice giggled like schoolboys.
“Wing Commander Lowe,” went on BSJ, ignoring their prank.
“Poor old Lennie won’t be happy with that one!” guffawed Minty. “The old bugger will talk him into defeat.”
“Number four,” said the Captain drawing the next ball.
“Ah yours twuly,” said BSJ scribbling his own name onto the paper. “Nice one Spencer, a home dwaw, thank you. Come on Minty, pick me a good one.”
“Thirty-one,” stated the vice.
“Uh oh, Colin Stimpson!” cried BSJ.
“An all Committee affair, that’ll be an interesting one,” said Spencer Cartwright before diving into the bag again. “Fifty-eight.”
“Jim Chives.”
“That had better be a bloody home draw,” said Chives with perfect timing as he and Bill strode into the room.
“Factum indeedum,” replied Minty as he waited for the Captain to place his ball into the purpose built tray before plucking out the away player, “and you will play, number eleven,” he announced.
“Fwedewick Piper.”
“Which one’s he?” questioned Spencer Cartwright.
“You ought to know everyone, you are the Club Captain!” admonished Chives.
“You’d know him when you saw him,” said Bill, “small bloke with the upside down head. Bald as a coot but with a great bushy beard. Normally plays with Benson and Charlie Wheeler.”
“Not the one with the gammy leg?” Chives said suddenly, a look of horror on his face.
“Correctus guessus,” pontificated the Vice Captain.
“Bugger that” said the Club Secretary, “put him back and pick out someone else.”
“But I’ve witten him in n
ow,” complained BSJ.
“Well you’ll just have to unwitten him. I can’t spend four hours on my own with him. Here let me do it,” he said as he picked up the ball in question and thrust it back into the bag before pulling out another. “Twenty-nine?” he tried.
“Neil Turner?” offered BSJ.
Chives shook his head and had another try. “Number two?”
“Wuddy hell,” said BSJ suddenly, glancing up sadly, “I-I f-forgot to take him out. I-It’s his L-Lordship.” The Committee Room fell silent.
“You know, in all the commotion, it hasn’t had a chance to sink in. He’s gone,” said Chives softly, slumping into one of the chairs, sadness etched across his face.
“What a man,” said Bill.
“What a way to go!” said Minty. “Hole in one, it was a spiffing shot. It was as if the ball was on the end of a piece of elastic. Never missing.”
“Did he suffer?” asked Chives.
The Captain shook his head. “It all happened so quick. I think he was probably dead before he hit the ground.”
“What’s going to happen to us now, Jim?” asked Minty unsurely.
“Business as usual,” replied the secretary.
“But what if the Viscount wants to make big changes when he takes over?” continued the Vice.
“Changes?” panicked BSJ. “What kind of changes?”
“Who knows,” replied Minty, “I overheard some chaps talking in the bar earlier. What if he wanted to build a housing estate on the course, or open up the course to the public?”
“Or to women!” spluttered Spencer Cartwright.
“Vixens in the clubhouse?!” cried BSJ. “He wouldn’t, would he Jim?”
“If you believe all the rumors,” replied Chives, “then that is precisely the last thing he’s likely to do.”
“Even so Jim, a new broom and all that, he’ll want to make his mark. Stamp his authority on the place,” said Minty.
Chives cast an enquiring glance over to Bill who, after a moment’s pause, agreed with a little nod of his head.
“Gentlemen,” started Chives in a serious tone, “it’s time to take you into our confidence. You see, we have a secret weapon of our own.” Captain and vice put down the bag of balls and BSJ lay his pen upon the draw sheet.
“What sort of weapon?” asked the Captain.
“A very old, but very powerful one,” replied Bill, walking around the table to stand with Chives.
The Club Secretary took up the thread. “One that takes us back again to the year eighteen sixty-one.”
“Is it to do with Bwamley?” prompted BSJ.
“Indeed it is,” conceded Chives, “Bramley was born on the estate when the fifth Earl was already in his sixties. The old man took a shine to the young boy and when the lad’s father died he took him under his wing. It was the fifth Earl that decided to lay out the course and bring golf to The Orbury. Though this was much to the annoyance of his eldest son and heir and alas, when the fifth Earl died at the ripe old age of eighty-six, the course was not yet finished. The incoming Earl was always dead against golf and before his father’s body was even cold he started to rip up the greens and fairways. Bramley and the new Earl’s younger sibling could only watch on in horror, helpless as all the fifth Earl’s work started to be undone before their eyes.”
“Wuddy hell,” muttered BSJ.
“However, at this point, fate had a decisive part to play.”
“Some say fate. Others like to think of it as justice. An angry father’s revenge from the other side of the grave,” suggested Bill.
“Well, whatever it was, it was swift,” continued Chives, “the new Earl was taken ill on a Friday morning and dead before Evensong on the Sunday. The estate was plunged into chaos.”
Bill picked up the narrative. “The new Earl was ill equipped to run the estate. All the training and education had been given to his elder brother. However, despite being only twenty-one, Bramley soon emerged as the guiding light. The new seventh Earl trusted him greatly and he was of course only seven or eight years older than the Earl’s son, the new Viscount. The three of them made a pact to ensure that the fifth Earl’s legacy of golf at The Orbury should be protected for as long as the Stoke family had control of the estate.”
“So it was that they hatched a scheme to guard The Orbury against the whim of a future Earl who might overturn this vision during his tenure,” said Chives.
“But how can you safeguard against ancestors who haven’t even been born yet?” questioned Minty.
Chives paused, milking the rapt attention of the other men. “By means of The Orbury Way,” he announced dramatically.
Bill went on. “A charter signed by each Earl that hands control of the golf club over to the Committee whilst retaining the titular title of Club President.”
“Why the bally hell would they do that?” asked the Vice Captain.
“Not just that, how can a flimsy piece of paper stop some future Earl who’s hell bent on wiping out golf fwom The Orbuwy?”
“Aah,” purred Chives, “and herein lies the brilliance of Bramley. Of course a normal piece of paper on its own isn’t going to stop them. But what if this piece of paper was mentioned in the letters patent itself?”
“Not sure I follow old boy?” stated Minty.
Chives retrieved Bramley’s small leather book from inside his jacket pocket and flicked to the relevant page. “To honour the terms of proof and intent required by the letters patent,” he read, “they are the words I said earlier, as written in Bramley’s own hand. Proof and intent,” he repeated with emphasis on the last word.
“Sorry Jim, but you’ve lost me as well,” admitted the Captain.
“In seven days time I have to accompany Viscount Waffham to the family solicitors. Where, by royal declaration, he must not only prove his ancestry to inherit the title but to also prove his intent for the use of estate.”
“The Orbury Way?” suggested Minty.
“Precisely. With a stroke of utter genius Bramley convinced the seventh Earl to seek an audience with Queen Victoria to have The Orbury Way added as a codicil to the formal letters patent of the earldom via an Act of Parliament.”
“If you don’t sign, you don’t inherit,” stated Bill simply.
“Utterum genium!” concurred Minty. “So the Viscount can kick and scream and spit out his dummy as much as he likes but at the end of the day he is powerless to intervene?” asked Minty.
“Even if we kick out his best mate?” asked BSJ, a toothy smile emerging from the depths of his beard.
“Exactly,” grinned Chives.
“Not that we can proceed without all caution,” warned Bill, “The Orbury Way covers how the estate is to be run all the time it is under the control of the Earl. He could of course sell it.”
“Would he?” asked Spencer Cartwright.
“Of course he’s not going to sell it!” rejected Chives. “He can’t wait to get his hands on it.”
“If selling is one thing he can do, then what can’t he do?” asked Minty.
“He can’t change the usage of the land from the original vision of the fifth Earl which was to split the estate into three sections; golf course, deer park and tenant farms,” replied Chives. “What’s more it states that the golf club is controlled by a Golf Committee with the Earl acting only as President.”
“Does the Viscount know this?” asked Spencer Cartwright.
“We’re not sure,” confessed Bill with a sideways glance to Chives, “I guess we’ll find that out when he gets here.”
Chives checked the time on the clock in the central alcove. “Which according to Brunswick will be in about an hour. So gather your bits Spencer, you and I must meet him at the station.”
“Me?” spluttered the Captain, “do I have to? He’s going to be very angry.”
“Good God man, where’s your backbone? The man’s grandfather has just died and it is only right and proper that it should fall to the Club Secretary and Clu
b Captain to break the news, so come on, chop chop!”
Reluctantly the Captain got to his feet.
“Bill, we’ll have to delay the first meeting by an hour, can you let all parties know please.”
“Of course.”
“And we’ll leave you two to complete the knockout draw,” he said to BSJ and Minty.
“No pwoblem, Jim.”
“And remember that your numbers don’t add up now, you’re a man short because you left the old man in,” said the secretary.
“I shouldn’t wowwy about that Jim, I should be able to find a late entwant fwom somewhere.”
“Oh you needn’t go to all that bother,” replied Chives, “just give me a bye, I think that would be best.” With that the Club Secretary led the Captain out of the room.