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that Martha had

    been replaced by a Filipino maid who was less disapproving of what they called their

    little games. Martha Meadows had kept her thoughts to herself but one morning Battleby,

    after a particularly drunken night, had lost his temper and had thrown her things–the

    clothes she came in before changing into her working ones–into the muddy yard outside

    the kitchen; he had called her a fucking old bitch and better off dead at that. Mrs Meadows

    had walked home seething with rage, and determined on getting her own back. Day after day

    she had sat at home beside her sick husband–who’d recently had a stroke and couldn’t

    talk–grimly determined to get her revenge. She had to be very, very careful. The

    Battlebys were a rich and influential family in the county and she had often thought of

    appealing to them, but for the most part they were of a different generation to the

    General’s nephew and seldom came to the Manor. No, she would have to act on her own. Two

    empty years passed before she thought of her own husband’s nephew, Bert Addle. Bert had

    always been a bit of a tearaway but she’d always had a soft spot for him, had lent him

    money when he was in trouble and had never asked for it back. Been like a mother to him,

    she had. Yes, Bert would help, especially now he’d just lost his job at the shipyard at

    Barrow-in-Furness. What she had in mind would certainly give him something to do.
    ‘He called you that?’ Bert said when she told him. ‘Why, I’ll kill the bastard. Calling my

    auntie a thing like that when you’ve been with the family all those years. By God, I

    will.’
    But Martha shook her head.
    ‘You’ll do no such thing. I’m not having you go to prison. I’ve got a better idea.’
    Bert looked at her questioningly.
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Disgrace him in public, so he can’t show his face round here no more, him and that hussy

    of his. That’s what I want.’
    ‘How you going to do that?’ Bert asked. He’d never seen Martha so furious.
    ‘Him and that Rottecombe bitch get up to some strange things, I can tell you,’ she said

    darkly.
    ‘What sort of things?’
    ‘Sex,’ said Mrs Meadows. ‘Unnatural sex. Like him being tied up and…Well, Bert, I don’t

    like to say. But what I do say is I’ve seen the things they use. Whips and hoods and

    handcuffs. He keeps them locked away along of the magazines. Pornography and pictures of

    little boys and worse. Horrible.’
    ‘Little boys? He could go to prison for that.’
    ‘Best place for him.’
    ‘But how come you’ve seen them if they’re locked away?’
    ‘Cos he was so drunk one morning he was dead to the world in the old General’s dressing

    room and the cupboard was open and the key still in the lock. And I know where he keeps his

    keys, like the spare ones. He don’t know I do but I found them. On a beam over the old tractor

    in the barn he don’t ever use and can’t cos it’s broken. Shoves them up there where no one

    would think of looking. I seen him from the kitchen window. Keys of the back and front doors,

    key of his study and his Range Rover and the key of that cupboard with all that filth in it.

    Right, now here’s what I want you to do. That is if you’re prepared to, like.’
    ‘I’d do anything for you, Aunt Martha. You knows that.’
    By the time he left Bert knew exactly what he had to do.
    ‘And don’t you come in your car,’ Martha told him. ‘I don’t want you getting into

    trouble. You hire one or something. I’ll give you the money.’
    Bert shook his head.
    ‘Don’t need to. I’ve got enough and I know where I can get something to use, never you

    worry,’ he said and drove off happily, filled with admiration for his auntie. She was a

    sly one, Auntie Martha was. Thursday, she’d said.
    ‘Unless I phones you otherwise. And I’ll use a public phone. I’ve heard they can trace

    calls from homes and suchlike, the police can. Can’t be too