The Last Baronet by Caroline Akrill

Author:Caroline Akrill [Akrill, Caroline]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2016-10-25T16:00:00+00:00

TWENTY

The department, discreetly labelled MILITARY AND SPORTING was on the second floor and furnished like a gentleman’s club with mahogany panelling, heavy drapes, leather chairs and pleated lampshades on brass stands. A lone sales assistant, white-haired and stooped like an aged manservant, was peering into a ledger on a leather-topped desk as Tony Pomeroy arrived, treading silently on well-felted navy blue carpet.

Tony cleared his throat in order to indicate his arrival. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I would like to purchase a hunting outfit.’

The sales assistant raised his head and his expression was pained. ‘Oh, good gracious me, Sir, not a hunting outfit; never in a million years. What you require are hunting clothes.’

‘In that case,’ said Tony obligingly, ‘I would like to purchase a set of hunting clothes.’

‘You would like to purchase hunting clothes.’ The assistant looked at him in reproof. ‘Not an outfit, not a kit, and most certainly not a set.’

‘Hunting clothes,’ agreed Tony, and seeing that this could be a long drawn out affair, sat down on one of the leather chairs.

‘May I enquire for which pack?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I was enquiring, Sir, as to which pack of hounds you will be hunting with?’

‘Oh, I see. Well... to be honest, I don’t actually know. Does it matter?’

‘It would be advisable to know, Sir, whether you will be hunting with foxhounds, staghounds, harriers, beagles or draghounds.’

Tony had no idea that packs of hounds came in such a bewildering variety. ‘Surely all hunts are more or less the same?’

‘In many ways they are much the same, Sir, but as I am sure you are aware, foxhounds hunt fox, staghounds hunt deer, harriers hunt hare, draghounds hunt an artificial line, and beagles are followed on foot.’

‘I shall not be following on foot,’ said Tony with confidence. ‘I shall be on a horse. Most definitely.’

‘Then perhaps we should begin by establishing which country you will be hunting in.’

Tony thought the question absurd. ‘Why, here, of course, in England. As I’m a total novice at this I would hardly be venturing abroad.’

The sales assistant found it necessary to inspect a pincushion which resembled a wine coaster, having a base of turned mahogany and a green baize hillock in the centre liberally stuck with pins. ‘Have you any idea which county you will be hunting over, Sir,’ he enquired in a careful voice.

‘Suffolk. Around Framlingham, I imagine. The place I’m staying is in a village called Rushall St. Mary, and the Boxing Day meet is local.’

‘Foxhounds or Harriers then, Sir, I think we may safely assume. All the same, it would be advisable to consult Baily.’

‘Baily’s your resident hunting expert, is he?’

‘You could say that, Sir, yes, you could certainly say that.’ With some considerable difficulty, the aged assistant creaked across the sales floor and pulled out one of a row of uniform red volumes from a shelf above a restrained display consisting of a dun waistcoat, one spur and a bowler hat. ‘Baily’s Hunting Directory. Published annually since 1897, and a veritable mine of information. Our resident expert.

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