Spotty Boy’s first job in the garden was to help the head gardener bury old Mr Grey, the Groom of the Stool.
”Why are we burying him here?” he asked in genuine confusion.
”Well, he is an illegal immigrant, lad!” came the unembellished answer. Spotty Boy was none the wiser and showed it. The head gardener encouraged him to keep digging while he explained that illegal immigrants have no papers, passports or any form of identification. They don’t register with GPs or hospitals and they don’t claim benefits from the government.
”We can’t exactly give him a traditional send-off and a party down the pub, can we, lad?” and he went off chuckling to himself.
As soon as he was out of sight Spotty Boy put on his rubber gloves and found a nice sprig of poison ivy. He ran back into the house, raced up the stairs and gently squeezed the sap into Caressa Nob’s jar of night cream. He gave it a good stir around with Caressa’s nail file and replaced the lid. He was back digging Mr. Grey’s grave before anyone noticed that he had gone.
That evening Chef served Caressa’s favourite, his personal version of Caesar’s Salad with finely sliced venison.
”The black olives were especially piquant!” she remarked but, as she was in a hurry to resume servicing the stallions, she had swallowed them whole. Caressa did not like to waste food. She ate alone because Fuky had not returned from his club and Getona was on her way to Monaco with darling Toadie.
Caressa relished the opportunity to drink a whole bottle of best red wine and retire early. She reminded Miss Judge to dispatch the chauffeur to Margate in the morning.
”Margate?” enquired Miss Judge, visibly confused.
”Of course!” retorted the inebriated Mrs Nob. “Mr Grey, the Groom of the Stool, has died, remember? We need a new illegal immigrant tout suite! Chauffeur will know what to do. I believe he kidnaps a few when they land on Margate beach in their rubber dinghy thingies during the night. He selects the strongest and sells the rest. Nice extra-curricula income for him, I am sure! Anyway, good night Miss Judge!”
At 4am Caressa Nob fell out of bed in agony. She was bellowing as loud as she could for Miss Judge who came flying up the stairs in her nightgown.
”Whatever is wrong, Madam, your Excellency?” she cried upon entering the suite, but she need not have asked.
Mrs Nob’s face and hands were covered in bulbous liquid filled blisters! She was spinning around in a copious quantity of vomit and diarrhoea, choking and heaving, barely able to breathe!
Within seconds she was very dead. Miss Judge screamed in shock and ran to call the emergency services.
When Farquhar Nob arrived home at 6am he was greeted by his private physician in full protective clothing and mask who was in the lobby writing up the necessary diagnosis on the death certificate.
”The whole household is quarantined and must get PCR tested immediately!” The doctor announced with that matter of fact attitude which had always annoyed the Nobs.
”Why?” growled Fuky, suspicious.
The doctor tried to look sympathetic, but the truth was that he had hoped to get away without having to deal with the obnoxious Fuky Nob.
”Mrs Caressa Nob, your dear wife, has died and I am sorry to say that her corpse bears the classic symptoms of CoronaPox! The law forbids a post mortem and an immediate cremation is essential.”
With that, he feigned an urgent need to accompany the cadaver to the morgue.
”What the fuck?” was all he heard as he ran away.
Chapter 4: https://francesleader.substack.com/p/ch-4-the-nobs?s=w
I like it.