Well, hello. I expect you’re here to talk about your daughter, aren’t you? What can I say? We were alone, the night was warm, the moon was full and the air was sweet with the wafting scent of Jasmine. Whatever was a chap supposed to do? Bertram Roache is not your man if resisting temptation is your game. It was a night of pure Cadmium.
What’s that? That wasn’t your daughter, you say. Well, that is a relief. I’m a touch light on ready money at the moment. Another paternity suit is the last thing I need. Frankly, I can’t understand what they were thinking leaving a man of my reputation in charge of a Sixth form girl's dormitory in the first place? Quite, quite mad. At Harrow they called me Bertie the Bounder, you know. And not for nothing! Not the serving-wenches, of course. They called me Cock Roache, I believe. I've always had a thing for pinafores! By the time I left, there was scarcely a presentable-looking maid under thirty that couldn’t testify in court how I got that name, I can tell you! Ding Dong! If I hadn’t been expelled for knocking-up the headmaster’s wife I might have completed the set by the end of the Upper Sixth!
Still enough of that. You’re not from the Inland Revenue, I hope. I wouldn’t want you to have wasted your time driving all the way out here to father’s shooting estate when the cheque is in the post. Fact is, paperwork isn’t really my forte. I didn’t realise I hadn’t paid any Income Tax for the last five years until I received your cordially-worded invitation to pay back the £125,000. You see, my little Bentley dealership is registered in the British Virgin Islands for tax purposes and I naturally assumed that the same applied to me! And to my staff. And to their family members to boot! You'd scarcely credit how keen they were to invest in my extracurricular business. How was I to know pyramid schemes are illegal? I assumed we were investing in property in Egypt. I was looking forward to riding a camel across the desert to visit my sphinx-farm!
Well, I suppose that won’t happen now... what with me in the clink. Well, no one shall ever say that Bertram Roache ran away from his responsibilities. I accept my guilt with dignity, if not enthusiasm. Put on the handcuffs, Officer. Bind me in chains and throw me into the deepest, darkest corner of the pokey until father settles my debts. I deserve no better.
What do you mean you’re not a taxman? Of course, you are. Why else would you have those mean little eyes and a suit so badly tailored it would more apt for a publican? You are a publican? Then what in Heaven’s name makes you think you can march up to the front door of father’s manor and knock like some beastly bailiff? He might have had you shot if he wasn’t so occupied attempting to part another West End actress from her stockings.
Well, yes. I suppose I did drink rather a lot of champagne on account last night but surely you didn’t expect me to check to see my credit card hadn’t expired when I was accompanied by that delightful little filly from Madame Gigi’s House of Correction. What that girl can’t do with a riding-crop and some whipped cream isn’t worth knowing. Now, be off before I have the butler send for the hounds.