Dead on Cue Page 6

  ‘What is this Under Milk Wood?’ asked Ricardo innocently.

  Nick tried to explain but realized that his efforts were wasted as the masseur was clearly paying him no attention, preferring to eye up Jonquil who wasn’t taking any notice of him.

  Estelle spoke above the general hubbub. ‘Listen, folks, we’ve got to give a good show for the sake of young Oswald.’

  Nick racked his brains and remembered an enthusiastic teenager who was hanging round on the sidelines. Gerry treated him as a general dogsbody and was forever sending the boy off to get him cups of coffee. It had been the vicar’s impression that the poor child had definitely wanted to learn the craft of theatre direction and had been fobbed off rather cruelly.

  He turned to Ricardo. ‘How is Mrs Harlington these days? I hope she’s coming to see it.’

  ‘She is – somewhat reluctantly.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I think she fears that her husband is going to try and modernize the show and feels that she could not bear that. It is my belief –’ Ricardo bent his handsome head and lowered his voice to a whisper – ‘that they don’t get on too well.’

  Nick, who tried his very best not to indulge in local gossip, adopted his wise-owl look and merely said, ‘Ah.’

  At that precise moment Ekaterina, who was wearing a rustling creation by Vivienne Westwood, crossed her beautiful legs, and said, ‘Thank you. I will have another small vodka. But remember I have to drive home.’

  ‘We’re sitting ducks for the police,’ answered Sir Rufus Beaudegrave, taking her glass to refill it.

  ‘It is just as bad in America.’

  ‘But you’re not American, surely. What is that gorgeous accent you have?’

  ‘I was born in Russia,’ she said, and offered no further information.

  ‘I thought it was somewhere like that,’ he answered.

  Ekaterina looked around her. They were seated in the Victorian drawing room, elegantly furnished with comfortable sofas and deep chairs. A chaise longue rested against one wall, a large fern in a big brass pot standing beside it. The curtains were drawn against the night and Rufus had a big fire going in the generous grate.

  ‘This is a very beautiful place,’ she said appreciatively.

  ‘This is only a quarter of it,’ he answered. ‘Allow me to show you round in the daylight sometime.’

  ‘I would like that. And it is about this castle that is the indirect reason I called on you.’

  ‘I see. Go on.’

  ‘I believe you have a Son et Lumière taking place at the moment.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, my husband has been called in to direct it.’

  ‘Yes, Gerry Harlington. This all happened because poor Ben Merryfield died very suddenly. Anyway, what about your husband?’

  Ekaterina took a sip of her drink and sat up straight. ‘I do not wish to be disloyal to the poor man but frankly, my dear sir, he has very strange ideas. You see he was trained as a hip-hop dancer and he wants to modernize the show. He starred in some rather poor films about the Wasp Man. That is his background.’

  Sir Rufus was suddenly all attention. ‘You know, I used to enjoy those films enormously. Took my kids to see them. They couldn’t get enough of them.’ His expression changed. ‘But I do understand what you mean. However, I watched some of the rehearsal earlier this evening and there appeared to be nothing untoward going on.’

  Ekaterina emptied her glass. ‘Then I am sorry to have bothered you.’

  ‘Not at all. But you’ve finished your drink. Can I get you anything else?’

  Ekaterina put her head on one side. ‘Alas, no. As I said earlier, I must consider driving home.’

  Sir Rufus put out his hand. ‘I’m sorry you are going. I’ve really enjoyed talking to you. Please come again.’

  She took it and he held her fingers a fraction longer than was necessary.

  ‘Thank you. I will try,’ she answered, and allowed him to show her out.

  SEVEN

  Sunday in Lakehurst. An early autumn stillness hung over the trees while the sun rose lazily through a lawn of low-lying mist. The village was unusually quiet, interrupted only by the occasional bark of a dog or the distant sound of children playing. Other than for that one could think of it as deserted or in a time warp, a Brigadoon that only appeared every hundred years. And even though on that particular morning it was only a sleepy Sussex village, it had a rich and fascinating history, much of it dark and disturbing. In recent memory there had been a series of murders perpetrated by a single hand, but years before that the village had had its share of saints and smugglers, of witches and wizardry, of deranged old men who would drive their coach and four down the cobbled road to wake up all the citizens sleeping in their dreamless couches.

  As this was his busiest day of the week Nick had set his alarm for six and thus was able to witness first light, the sun huge and red as it came up through the fog. Putting on his dressing gown he paused a moment at the window, feeling a great oneness with the whole of humanity, his soul leaping and his mind questioning. But then the sensation passed and he went downstairs and fed Radetsky, who sat like a small ginger sentry at the bottom of the stairs, standing up and purring as Nick appeared.

  The vicar was just conveying a spoonful of muesli to his mouth when the telephone rang. It was Gerry Harlington.

  ‘Hi ya, Vic. How are things?’

  ‘Well I’m going to be rather busy today. I’ve a couple of christenings to do this afternoon. In fact I’m not going to get any time off until this evening. I do hope you’re not calling an extra rehearsal.’

  Gerry laughed a trout-gurgling laugh. ‘No, sir. I think the show is just fine. I’ve got some personal work to do on it but you needn’t concern yourself with that. No, I really rang you to apologize for not coming to church today. Sorry, but the castle is calling, as they say.’

  Nick felt guilty that he experienced such a terrific surge of relief at the words. ‘Oh that’s quite all right, Gerry. You must put your other commitments first. We want a good performance.’

  ‘We sure do. Bye now.’

  As Nick put some bread in the toaster he wondered what ‘personal work’ Gerry had referred to. And then he thought of the morris men – the Casselbury Ring troupe – and wondered if at last they were available and Gerry was fitting them into the show. He fervently hoped so.

  Ekaterina woke early and was surprised to find that Gerry had risen before her and had gone downstairs. As she went along the dark corridor leading to the staircase she felt something brush against her arm but when she turned to see what it was there was nothing there.

  ‘Good morning, ghost,’ she said cheerfully, and proceeded downwards.

  The whole of the bottom half of the house was filled by the sound of extremely loud hip-hop music, shaking the ancient timbers and making the old building shudder. With a sigh Ekaterina walked along one of the two narrow corridors that ran parallel, making her way to the old servants’ quarters at the back of the building. In there Gerry had converted an ancient kitchen into a kind of gymnasium-cum-rumpus room and it was from here that the music was blaring. Ekaterina stood frozen in the doorway, watching him. He was wearing combat camouflage trousers and a black vest, the habitual baseball cap rammed down hard on his head. And he was doing an absolutely hectic hip-hop routine. At the precise moment of her arrival he was wiggling his bottom at speed and then squatting down and rising up again, only to repeat the movement two or three times. Finally he raised his arms straight above his head, revealing a great deal of armpit hair, and then lowered them, palms of hands facing the unseen audience.

  ‘What,’ said Ekaterina into the sudden silence, ‘are you doing?’

  Gerry jumped and answered nastily, ‘What does it look as if I’m doing?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I’m dancing, you silly bitch. That’s what I do – hip-hop.’

  ‘But why now?’

  Gerry mopped his swe
aty brow. ‘Because I’m working out. I wanna keep fit. I don’t belong to any fancy health club in Brighton.’

  ‘You can join it if you want to. There’s nothing stopping you.’

  ‘Oh no? What about the money?’

  Ekaterina shrugged carelessly. ‘Is your allowance too small? I can increase it if that is what you would like.’

  ‘What I would like is a joint cheque book.’

  ‘And that is what you are not going to get. I am staying in sole control of what I inherited.’

  Gerry came up close to her and thrust his face within an inch of hers. ‘I think you’re a parsimonious cow.’

  Ekaterina stared back at him without flinching. ‘Do you really?’ she said icily, and started to walk away.

  A big black hand approached her face and then, thinking better of it, just as quickly withdrew.

  ‘You’re trash,’ said Gerry.

  ‘Has anyone ever told you how becoming you look in those clothes,’ she answered coolly and, turning on her heel, made her way back into the main part of the manor.

  Inwardly she was seething, thinking that this was the final straw. She had been contemplating divorce for some months but always the thought of how much Gerry was going to make out of it had held her back. But now she felt she didn’t care. He could become a millionaire. It would be cheap at the price to get rid of him. For Ekaterina had not only changed in looks but also in personality. As the beautiful swan had emerged from the knives of surgeons, based in clinics throughout the world, she had at long last realized her own worth. She had felt lovely and as a result her entire life had been altered. She no longer regarded Gerry as anything other than someone who had been kind to her when she was a squinty-eyed, frightened girl. For nowadays her suspicions that he had been checking out exactly who he was marrying had multiplied. Still cold with anger she marched upstairs and slipped on some casual clothes designed for her by Valentino. Then she made up her glorious face and left the house in her snazzy sports car.

  Having nowhere in particular to drive to she found herself making her way towards Fulke Castle, soon to be the scene of her husband’s triumph. Or rather the hard work of the Odds would create the hit and he would take all the glory. Still furious, Ekaterina drove over the bridge and pulled up outside the castle.

  The moat was sapphire blue in the morning sunshine and dotted with water fowl. Black swans with red beaks swam alongside those of dazzling white plumage, and ducks and moorhens were establishing their place with noisy quacks. Getting out of her car she saw that the trees were turning a fiery red after the warm summer and realized for the first time that the castle was built on a tiny island. Staring at it closely it seemed to her that the lovely location was like the domain of the Sleeping Beauty, a fairy-tale place with a magical quality all its own. Ekaterina drew breath as a mauve balloon appeared in the sky, its basket full of people drinking champagne. One of them waved at her and she waved back.

  The oldest part of the castle was built out over the water and she noticed that up on the battlements of these ancient fortifications a distant figure was standing, surrounded by a clutch of girls of varying sizes. Ekaterina felt sure that it was Sir Rufus and she tentatively raised an arm in greeting. To her immense pleasure the man gesticulated back and indicated that she was to stay where she was. She did so, very happy all of a sudden. It took him several minutes to reach her side but when he finally arrived she saw that he was smiling broadly.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Harlington. I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to be here. But I was out for a drive and my car just led me. So I allowed it to go where it wanted.’

  ‘Does it often do that? Take you on magical mystery tours I mean.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Ekaterina answered, and thought how fine Sir Rufus looked, his hair as red as the autumn trees, his skin fresh and clear.

  ‘Well, now that you are here can I show you over the castle?’

  ‘It would indeed be a great pleasure,’ she answered in her careful Russian way.

  ‘We’ll start at the oldest part and then you can meet my daughters.’

  ‘That will be nice. How long have you been looking after them?’

  ‘Five years now. The smallest one, Perdita, was just three when her mother left me.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Ekaterina, never wasting words on niceties.

  ‘She fell for a gamekeeper and moved into his cottage.’

  ‘Like Lady Chatterley?’

  ‘Just like,’ Rufus answered, and they both laughed, the sound echoing off the old stones that surrounded them.

  Up on the battlements his four children awaited them, going very quiet and serious as Ekaterina approached.

  ‘This is Perdita,’ Rufus announced, and the smallest came forward and said, ‘Hello,’ rather shyly.

  ‘And this one is Ondine. And next to her comes Iolanthe. And my eldest girl is Araminta.’

  ‘What beautiful names,’ said Ekaterina. ‘They are quite lovely – as, indeed, are their owners.’

  And it was true. Only one – Iolanthe – had inherited Rufus’s red hair and striking autumn looks but the rest were also truly beautiful in their own individual ways. Araminta, who presumably took after the bolting Lady Beaudegrave, had hair a-glistening, gleaming black, and was blessed with a pair of wide, jade-coloured eyes. The other two girls were both blondes but where one was tall and languid, the other was a busy little parcel, petite and doll-like. This one, Perdita, shook Ekaterina’s hand and said ‘Welcome to the castle.’ Ekaterina, who had never felt in the least maternal, felt a strange stirring sensation in the region of her heart.

  An hour later and they had seen over the entire castle, ending up in the Victorian part. As they had passed through the Tudor courtyard Ekaterina had noted the amazing lighting rig and sound equipment and could not help but remark to Rufus, ‘All this is for Gerry’s production, I take it?’

  ‘You are absolutely right. I think it is going to be tremendous.’

  Thinking of her husband’s amazing ego and going cold at the idea, Ekaterina said, ‘I hope you are correct.’

  Rufus had taken her hands in his and turned to face her. ‘I watched the last rehearsal and I can assure you that there was absolutely no hanky-panky.’

  ‘’Anky-panky,’ she repeated in her delightful Russian accent. ‘I do not know this expression. What does it mean?’

  ‘Dubious goings-on,’ replied Rufus, and his four girls tittered in harmony.

  It was inevitable that he should invite her to join him for lunch, which they ate at a very ancient pub called The Brown Trout. The girls were all very well behaved but Ekaterina was well aware of the discerning gaze of Araminta, the eldest. Those jade-green eyes barely left her and she wondered if she was making a good impression. Once Ekaterina glanced up and caught Rufus looking at her with his bright amber gaze and there could be no doubt that she was creating an impact on him. Once again she had that strange feeling that somewhere inside her an icicle was melting.

  By the time she returned home she was feeling guilty but happy and she walked into the moated manor house humming a little tune.

  ‘Gerry,’ she called, ‘where are you?’

  There was no reply but from his study she could hear the television blaring loudly. Putting her head round the door she saw him, trainers on an antique table, still wearing his smelly hip-hop clothes and fast asleep with his mouth open. Giving a deep sigh, Ekaterina withdrew to the drawing room to read Vogue.

  After evensong Nick would gladly have slumped in front of the television but had promised Kasper that he would meet him for a pint so made his way to The Great House. Inside, Jack Boggis was relating a tale to a small man who, so legend had it, suffered extremely with poor health. And indeed the fellow was going white as a sheet as Jack held forth.

  ‘Trouble is that the drive to Devon gave me a terrible attack of piles,’ snorted Boggis, laughing and showing pale pink gums. ‘As soon as I arrived I said t
o the woman I was going to see that my arse was killing me.’

  The other fellow, who Nick believed was called Alfred Munn, asked in a ghostly whisper, ‘And what did she say to that?’

  ‘I think she was a bit annoyed because she never answered directly. But the look on her face was enough to make me die laughing.’

  He took a deep quaff of ale and then guffawed so loudly that the people at the next table gave him a funny look.

  Kasper rolled his eyes. ‘As if we wish to know that.’

  ‘You must hear a thing or two in your profession, though,’ Nick remarked rather waggishly.

  ‘And so must you. The secrets of the confessional and all that.’

  ‘Quite. Anyway, when are you coming to see the Son et Lumière?’

  ‘The first night. Is it going to be any good?’

  ‘I saw a bit of the rehearsal the other evening and quite frankly I felt moist about the eye. With admiration, I hasten to add.’

  ‘In that case I can’t wait. I shall be in the front row.’

  Nick turned to Jack. ‘Excuse me interrupting your conversation, Mr Boggis, but I wondered if you would be attending the Son et Lumière that is being put on at Fulke Castle?’

  ‘No. I don’t go to local am-drams. Don’t like ’em and can’t pretend I do. So that’s your answer, Vicar.’

  ‘I’d like to go if I can find anyone to give me a lift,’ piped up Alfred.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Kasper offered valiantly. ‘I’m going on the first night.’

  ‘Then I’ll ring up for a ticket.’

  Jack turned purple but said nothing. Unchristian as it was, Nick thought him a thoroughly objectionable old bore. He turned to Alfred.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Munn. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the show.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at seven,’ Kasper added.

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  The vicar and the doctor regarded one another and neither could resist grinning.

  ‘Round one to us,’ whispered Kasper.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Nick – and they clinked glasses.