Lord Torstil's Crime, or, How to Marry an English Lord
My home was passing before my eyes - I had missed my stop. I quickly pressed the button and gathered my things. The bus halted around the curve of the road to let me out and I clambered down the stairs and up the road, wondering all the while as to the possible significance of the presence of neon-jacketed security personnel all over the front garden and even in the back of the house, as my elevated position on the top deck had enabled me to see. I made my way in through the open door into the lobby. As I continued up the wide marble stairs to the floor above I could hear the clamour of numerous voices coming from our flat. In my haste and alarm I seemed to be completely butter fingered, dropping my bags repeatedly. Items were falling out of them and rolling around and while trying to retrieve them, I overheard, somewhere off to stage left, the voices of the concierges discussing my personal appearance. “What a mess she is.” That's rather rude, I thought. But in fairness, probably accurate, as I supposed my hasty flight down the bus stairs with groceries in tow and up the road had done my hair no favours, after a day of shopping in the town which is never an improver of the arrangement of one’s dress or grooming.
The landing was crowded with people, all talking animatedly, waving papers, clipboards, speaking loudly into mobiles. I shouldered my way through the crowd, hearing snippets of conversation as I passed. I put it together that a certain Lord Torstil, newly inheriting the title, had insulted the prime minister and consequently been arrested. A woman with a binder with photos of different styles of men's hats was saying “At the press conference, the PM should wear a hat. Hats give dignity. We need to find a hat that the PM will look good in.” I thought to myself..... “John looks good in a hat.” Once in the flat I found that the crowd did not clear but rather thickened. No one took any notice of me. I went from room to room, not finding any answers. In the middle of my living room, exasperated with the situation, I shouted “Can somebody please tell me what you are all doing in my house?” “This is Lord Torstil's flat” someone replied. “No, this is my home, the home of John and Meredith Vatcher” Someone unfurled before my eyes a large genealogy chart with an ancient crest. I followed the pointing finger and sure enough, there on an obscure branch, was Margaret, and underneath the name John Vatcher, followed by William Vatcher. It all became clear. John had himself become Lord Torstil. I had in fact, married an English lord.
