Disclaimers: as before.

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If things hadn't been too bad for Nigel thus far, they rapidly declined just before the guests started to arrive.

Lined up at the front door to greet the VIPs, the girls looked very pretty, dressed in milkmaid outfits with gingham skirts and plunging blouses. Pansy, particularly, resembled a character out of Heidi. Nigel, on the other hand, both looked and felt a fool. He had nearly died when he had seen his outfit. They obviously were not supposed to reflect any sort of historical accuracy or Scottish tradition, but this was ridiculous! The open collared cream shirt and dark red waistcoat were acceptable enough, but there was also a silly pair of tartan plus-four knee breeches, coarse woolen knee-high socks, and a soft cloth cap with a small peak. He looked like a cross between a bellboy and a golfer, and he was not happy.

To add insult to injury, the girls had all put on particularly high heels under their full skirts. Standing alongside them, he felt particularly unattractive and, well, short. 'Any minute now', he thought, 'Sydney is going to arrive and see me like this. She'll die of hysterics and blow our cover.'

Sydney, however, was not the first guest to arrive. She was preceded by a 'Colonel Milford.' Of course, this was not his real name as all the guests had been told to arrive in character for the charade. He was a man in his sixties with lamb chop sideburns which, in themselves, had far more stage presence, and certainly seem to be larger than, his mousy little wife, Lucy. They arrived in a vintage Rolls-Royce, stacked to the ceiling with boxes, suitcases and shooting paraphernalia, which it took Bob and Nigel several trips to deliver to their quarters. After the Milford's, came 'Miss Miranda Macduff', a tall, glamorous woman in her forties. She had long blonde hair, piled on the top of her head and secured by an eclectic variety of jeweled combs. She insisted that Nigel, alone, helped her with her not inconsiderable luggage, a task which took several trips.

Every time he entered her room, she blasted Nigel with a variety of awkward questions. Did he have a girlfriend? Was he gay? Did he like older women? Had he ever bathed in liquid chocolate? Nigel fielded these inquiries as 'gamely' as possible, explicitly avoiding sounding too 'game.' He was rewarded on his final trip with a £20 note, and a short, sharp slap on the bottom. 'Make sure you're pouring my wine later, sweetie,' cooed Miranda, and shut the door behind him, leaving him standing speechless in the hallway.

When Nigel arrived back at the entrance, he was hot, flustered and still seething with humiliation. He ditched the cap in a plant pot, and wished he could do the same to the socks as they were itching like hell. His discomfort must have been very visible, as Moira shifted her place along the row and shuffled in next to him as they waited for the next guest. 'Hang on in there, Nigel,' she whispered. 'The guests are always overexcited when they arrived, but they calm down a bit. They're like kids…'

Just then, a beautiful 1930's Super Sports Dalmain swept up the driveway, and smoothly circled to a halt right in front of them. Bob opened the car door. One, then two, stunning long legs, clad in tailored cream trousers and ending in impossibly high, black stiletto heels, were all that were visible from moment. Then the assembly were treated to the full display: Sydney Fox, or rather, 'Lady Hortensia Fortesquieu', was clad head to foot in 1930s style tailoring, modernised with a plummeting neckline that was made all the more revealing by the chiffon scarf that ornamented her graceful neck. If the view hasn't been so great, Nigel would have been much more resentful than he was. Nevertheless, part of him still wished that she didn't have to look quite so amazing.

Sydney swept along the line of staff, blessing each of them with a benevolent greeting. 'Have the boy bring my bags to my room,' she then said carelessly, as she peeled off a pair of black leather travelling gloves and glided inside the mansion. Nigel, once again, gaped at her in disbelief and it took a sharp kick from Moira to spur him into action. Oh yes, Sydney Fox was owed some revenge!

……………………….

'I couldn't let them know that I knew you, could I?'

Nigel, sitting on the edge of an enormous bed and still slightly out of breath from carrying all her boxes, glared at Sydney.

'I thought that remaining aloof was the best way.'

'Yes, but you could have asked me politely to bring up your bags, rather than all this 'have the boy bring 'em up,' malarkey.' He folded his arms and let out a grumpy sigh. 'I've had enough of that from the others. I thought I could expect better from you!'

Sydney, who had been unpacking and admiring her newly purchased range of thirties style outfits, was struck by a sudden guilt. Maybe she had got a little carried away. She normally cared little for overtly glamorous clothes, but the period outfits were reminding her of her grandmother, Isabel. They made her feel somehow different. She stopped, and set herself down next to Nigel on the bed. He did look cute, she thought.

'I'm sorry, Nigel,' said Sydney, 'I guess I was just getting into the act. Still, it was rude of me. I won't do it again.' She smiled optimistically.

Nigel relented a little. 'I'll forgive you this once,' he muttered, and then turned to look her straight in the face. 'But you owe me one – several, in fact, and I won't forget it.' He returned her smile, as she rose from the bed and continued unloading her wardrobe.

'So, have you found any clues about the statue yet?'

'Nothing solid', replied Nigel. There are a lot of wonderful statues and wall reliefs in the library, some of which I dated back to 2000 BC. No sign of the statue, though. I've not had time to look everywhere yet. This place is massive and my guess is that it's hidden well away.'

'We'll have a better look after dinner,' said Syd, thoughtfully. Then she spun around on her heels and gave him a coquettish grin.

'So, did they tell you who did it?'

Nigel was bewildered. 'Did what? Stole the statue?'

'No! Who did the murder! This is a murder mystery weekend.'

'Nobody's been murdered yet,' said Nigel, not sharing her excitement. 'And, no, they didn't tell me. I suppose that's 'need to know' information.'

Just then a loud bell rang in the corridor. Nigel groaned, and rose to his feet. 'They did tell me, however, that I'm supposed to come every time that bloody bell rings. I suppose the next barking-mad guest has just arrived. Either that, or Moira thought I needed rescuing from you…'

'And who's Moira?' inquired Sydney, who seemed surprisingly taken aback by the first name reference. 'Is she one of the milkmaids? Surely there's been no time for rolling in the hay, yet?'

'Very funny!' said Nigel, not amused. 'She's just the only one who hasn't tried to eat me alive.' Nigel paused, wondering if he had overstated the negativity of his experience. Nevertheless, he decided to pursue this line. 'It's been no picnic so far for me, while all you've been doing is waltzing around pretending to be Greta Garbo.'

Sydney apologised again but, as Nigel left the room, she was still pondering which one of the girls Moira might be.

………………….

By the time Nigel got back to the front door, the sound of a helicopter, which he had first heard just after leaving Sydney's room, had risen to an almost deafening level. Sure enough, a small white chopper was just touching down on the lawn, not fifty metres from the front of the castle.

'It must be somebody really important!' conjectured Nigel to himself. A buzz of excitement swept through the girls, which reach fever pitch when they saw the figure which emerged from the helicopter.

'It's Peter Morrison!' squealed Tabatha, as a large, butch man, with cropped dark-blond wavy hair, swayed confidently down the steps of the chopper. Even though he was somewhat past the start of middle age and his waistline was beginning to expand, he had squeezed himself into a pair of tight, leather trousers and was wearing a loose white shirt, unbuttoned nearly down to his navel.

'Oh my god, I just love 'Scorch Valley Sirens.'' Tabatha sounded as if she was on the verge of hyperventilation.

'Shhhhhhh, girls!' hushed Bob. 'Remember, while he's here you call him Baron Von Hoffanbang. We all stay in character, remember?'

They nodded excitedly, but Tabatha didn't stop squealing. Pansy was preening with joy. If her scarlet grin was any bigger it could have encompassed the whole of her face.

Nigel slumped at the end of the line, utterly unfazed. He had heard of Peter Morrison. He had even, although he would never admit it, watched 'Screech Valley Sirens' a couple of times. No red-blooded male would look at Mr Morrison with all the female flesh that was on offer on that show! 'The guy is bound to be an idiot,' he thought, 'and, thank goodness, he is very unlikely to be interested in me with 'the three Graces' to greet him.'

'Baron van Hoffanbang' sauntered up. He obviously hasn't entered into the spirit of the 1930s costume. His leathers were so tight that Nigel wondered if they might split. It would nice not be the focus of humiliation for a change.

The Baron held up his hands in a gesture of mock self-effacement.

'Girls! Girls! Girls!' he drawled, 'I have never, in my life, seen such a comely welcoming committee.' The actress's beamed as he hugged each one in turn and planted wet kisses on their lips. Nigel was quietly pleased to see Moira screw-up her nose in disgust once out of the Baron's eyeline.

The Baron shook Bob's hand, and Nigel thought he was going to be happily ignored. Unfortunate, however, the great man had spotted him .

'Well, hello there!' he said suavely. 'And you are?'

'Nigel,' said Nigel, reluctantly proffering a hand. The Baron should it vigorously, sending shock waves right through Nigel's body.

'And what did you do around here?'

Nigel wished the ground would just swallow him up right there.

'He's our stableboy,' giggled Pansy. 'He's cute, isn't he?'

'Yes, he is that,' said the Baron meditatively. Nigel wished he would take his eyes off him and return them to the surely more compelling sight of the milkmaids.

To Nigel's great relief, however, the Baron was soon distracted by an even more absorbing vista.

The great front door swung open, and out strode 'Lady Hortensia Fortesquieu,' a.k.a Sydney Fox. She was clad in the tightest pair of beige jodhpurs the world had ever seen, and a closely tailored red hunting jacket. On her head was a jauntily balanced and surprisingly stylish black riding helmet. In her hand, was a long black riding crop.

'Baron van Hoffanbang, I presume,' she barked at the television star, holding out a gracefully gloved hand for him to kiss. He took it and lifted it to his lips.

'I'm most charmed, Miss…?'

'Lady Hortensia Fortesquieu,' said Sydney authoritatively. The Baron was lost for words, and stared at her agog. Sydney, however, was not messing around.

'I'm going riding,' she stated. 'I need the assistance of the stableboy!' She grabbed Nigel by the shirt, and briskly departed forthwith.

More very soon, I promise. Today if I get a chance to proof. Life keeps getting in the way of my fanfic.

Thanks for reading. Please review.