Bunburry--Murder in High Places

by Helena Marchmont

  2. The Savile Mansion

  The Savile mansion was further away than he had realised, far from any other habitation, although there were now road signs to it, which he guessed was a tribute to its Pride and Prejudice fame.

  The entrance was allegedly 800 metres on the left, but the house and grounds were completely camouflaged by ancient beech woodland. Before the signs went up, people would have driven straight past with no inkling that a grand house was nearby.

  He drove on to a newly tarmacked roadway through the trees for at least half a mile. And then suddenly the view opened up in front of him. Carefully trimmed parkland, bordered by bushes and ornamental trees, sloped gently upwards to the mansion. The three-storey house was built of limestone, shining golden in the sunlight. The entrance was flanked by the ionic columns that had so impressed Liz.

  But there was no time to linger in admiration since there were now two other cars behind him. He ignored the signs directing him to the car park, the coach park, and deliveries.

  The latter was the one Marge said she always used. Despite the ladies’ encyclopaedic knowledge of the Savile family, they weren’t personally acquainted. Their information came via the word-of-mouth Bunburry news network. Marge confessed that she always delivered the fudge by the tradesman’s entrance and handed it over to the cook. But she urged Alfie, as an official family friend, to park at the front of the house.

  Alfie continued up the wide road, now the sole driver. A coach party, led by a tour guide waving a furled golf umbrella, was gathered by the grand entrance, and as Alfie got closer, they all produced cameras and phones and began snapping away. He hoped they wouldn’t be too disappointed when they discovered he was a nobody.

  As Alfie drew up, David Savile emerged. The tour guide presumably whispered that this was the lord of the manor himself, since the group went into an even greater photographic frenzy.

  “You must be psychic,” said David Savile.

  “Yes, I’m the psychic delivery boy, bringing people fudge before they even know they need it,” said Alfie.

  “I mean I was just about to get in touch with you,” said David, as Alfie got out and hauled the large cardboard box out of the back of the car.

  The tour guide was having great difficulty coaxing the group into the mansion since most of them were craning to see what was in the box.

  David turned to them and called: “It’s Bunburry fudge, the best in the Cotswolds. Available in the gift shop and tearoom.”

  Twittering with excitement, the group disappeared into the house.

  “You’re good at this,” said Alfie.

  “Thanks to my lady wife,” said David. “You haven’t met her yet, have you?” He patted the bonnet of the Jaguar. “Do you trust this beauty to valet parking?”

  “Depends on the valet,” said Alfie, a trifle uneasily.

  “Don’t worry, Pete’s one of the best.” David took a walkie-talkie out of his jacket pocket and summoned Pete. Alfie was less than reassured when a youth who seemed barely out of his teens appeared. He didn’t want to entrust the Jag to a boy racer.

  The youth’s eyes glinted slightly as he saw the car, but he drove it away decorously enough. Alfie could only hope he didn’t floor it when he got out of sight.

  David was on the walkie-talkie again. “Darling? We’ve got a visitor. I’ll bring him round to the rose drawing room.”

  He relieved Alfie of the box of fudge and led him round to the side of the house where a stone staircase led up to a pair of French windows. A woman was in the process of opening them.

  “Darling,” David called. “This is Alfie.”

  Alfie hadn’t been sure what to expect. Since David’s wife was a former nurse, perhaps she would be like an old-school hospital matron, brisk, efficient and severe. Or now that she was the lady of the manor, a condescending figure wearing a sensible tweed suit, accompanied by a brace of Labradors. He wasn’t prepared for the slim, dark-haired smiling woman in her forties, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, who was bounding down the stone staircase, hand outstretched.

  “Alfie, this is my wife Rosemary,” said David.

  She shook Alfie’s hand, her smile warm. “How lovely to meet you at last! David’s spoken of you so often, and it’s disgraceful that you haven’t been here long before now. Come in, come in.”

  She led the way up the outside staircase into a room decorated in deep pink silk wallpaper. There were portraits on the walls, in heavy gilt frames, but the room was free of the Victorian clutter that Alfie associated with grand houses.

  “Please do sit down.” Rosemary Savile gestured towards one of two maroon-upholstered sofas, which proved to be surprisingly comfortable. “We’re safe in here from the marauding hordes. They’re kept to the main reception rooms.”

  “Le fudge nouveau est arrivé,” said David, hefting the box to show her. “I’ll take it down to the kitchen.”

  “While you’re there, get Alfie – tea? coffee? – coffee, good, and I’ll have one as well. And remember, I know how much fudge I ordered, and if I find any missing, there’s going to be trouble.”

  Alfie had imagined the Saviles would tug a silken bell pull, and a black-uniformed serving maid with a white apron would come in, curtsey, and receive her instructions. But here was David himself acting the part of his own servant.

  Rosemary settled herself on the sofa opposite. “David was just about to contact you. We’re holding a party on Saturday evening, black tie, and we’d love you to come if you’re free – and you must stay over.”

  All his current commitments were during the day. He had planned to invite Betty for dinner, but nothing had been arranged.

  “That’s very kind – I’d enjoy that.”

  “And of course, if you’d like to bring someone-”

  Dinner with Betty might still be an option. “I’d have to check with her, but I hope she’ll be free – a friend of mine, Betty Thorndike.”

  Rosemary Savile gave a small start of surprise. “Betty Thorndike, Phoebe’s tutor at Oxford?”

  “Yes, I think Phoebe took one of Betty’s environmental courses.” He would have to be cautious. He was pretty sure the Saviles knew nothing of their daughter’s earlier clandestine activity.

  “Phoebe talks about her all the time,” said Rosemary. “Our daughter’s turned into quite the green champion. She keeps badgering us to run this place in a more environmentally friendly way.”

  She put her hand up to her mouth in apology. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound disparaging – of course we should all be doing whatever we can. But Phoebe’s still an idealist who doesn’t understand that you have to be pragmatic as well.”

  “A good stage to be at, even if a little wearing for those around her,” said Alfie, smiling.

  “Ms Thorndike sounds quite alternative,” said Rosemary. “Do you think she’d be entirely comfortable coming here?”

  Alfie knew the remark was kindly meant, but he bristled up nonetheless. Did she think Betty was some sort of grungy yurt-dweller, whose idea of a party was less black tie than tie-dye?

  “I’m sure she’ll be more than comfortable,” he said. “She’s Elisabeth Thorndike’s daughter – you know, the supermodel.”

  He was gratified by Rosemary’s look of amazement.

  Alfie had never heard of Elisabeth Thorndike until Betty mentioned her, but he now knew she was an iconic model of the 1970s. He also knew, but wasn’t going to mention, that mother and daughter weren’t close.

  David reappeared at this moment, carrying a tray with coffee and a plate of fudge.

  “How many pieces got intercepted between box and plate?” Rosemary asked.

  “Darling!” her husband protested, but Alfie saw him surreptitiously dab the corners of his mouth.

  “And you’ll never guess what Alfie’s just told me – Betty Thorndike is Elisabeth Thor
ndike’s daughter.”

  David set down the tray with a clatter. “Goodness. I’d no idea she was so distinguished. Elisabeth Thorndike’s what passes for royalty in the States. I should have known, I suppose – I’ve met Betty a couple of times when I was visiting Phoebe, and she really is a most attractive filly.”

  “Betty’s Alfie’s plus-one for the party,” said Rosemary hurriedly.

  “Apologies, Alfie,” said David, pouring out the coffee. “I had no idea you and she were together.”

  This was a refreshing change from Bunburry where, thanks to the village’s predilection for gossip, everyone had been convinced for months that Betty was his girlfriend.

  “Very early days,” said Alfie. “I don’t even know whether she’s free next Saturday. Is the party a special occasion?”

  “Just a little get-together for Dorian Stevens,” said David, handing round the coffee. “Well, I suppose a medium-sized get-together. He’s going to bring a lot of his film star chums. You’ll like him. A very interesting chap.”

  “For ‘interesting,’ read ‘shares David’s interests,’ notably in obscure Japanese art and rare whisky,” said Rosemary. “But he and his wife are delightful – you’ll enjoy meeting them.”

  This was the first Alfie had heard of a wife. Perhaps the gossip about the affair was just that. Perhaps Mr and Mrs Stevens had an open marriage. Or perhaps the wife was the last to know.

  Just like his own mother, unaware that his father was having an affair with her own sister. Alfie had only just uncovered the truth of why his father had abandoned them before Alfie was born. And his initial reaction had been to walk out of Windermere Cottage, now that he knew Aunt Augusta had left it to him because she felt guilty about breaking up her sister’s marriage. It was Oscar who had talked him into staying.

  Alfie turned to Rosemary. “Is the guest list complete?”

  “Not at all – now Dorian’s confirmed how many people he’s inviting, we’re just at the stage of getting in touch with our local friends. We’ll close the house to the public for the duration, of course, so there’s plenty of room.”

  “Might I be able to bring a second plus-one?”

  “Of course,” said David.

  Alfie fished his smartphone out of his pocket. “Would you mind if I made a call?”

  “Feel free,” said David, standing up. “We’ll leave you to it.”

  Alfie grinned. “No, please, it’s not private. And it won’t take a moment.”

  He speed-dialled Oscar’s number. “Oscar? It’s me. I need an urgent favour. I’m off to a black-tie dinner, so could you go round to the flat, get my suit, bow tie, dress shirt – oh, and shoes, of course, and a couple of pairs of silk socks, and cufflinks – the silver ones I got in Paris, I think, maybe the quartz ones as well so that I have a choice. Get them couriered down as soon as possible – I need them for Saturday.

  “Sorry? Oh, I’ve been invited to a party by David, David Savile, your old school friend. It’s for Dorian Stevens. You know, the actor.

  “No, you’d absolutely hate it. It’s in David’s house, in the country, the middle of nowhere.”

  David and Rosemary exchanged smiles.

  “Oh no, I wouldn’t feel comfortable asking them. I’m sure they’ve already got the guest list arranged. Don’t worry, I’ll tell Dorian how much you admire him, and perhaps he’ll autograph a napkin for you.

  “Sorry? David’s number? I’m not sure I can remember it.”

  David shook his head in mock reproof and mouthed the number to him.

  “This might be it,” said Alfie, repeating it. “But the important thing is my dinner suit. Don’t forget to send it, preferably tomorrow. Thanks, Oscar, I’ve got to go, bye.”

  He switched off the phone and sat back. “Do we place bets on how long it will take him?”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” said Rosemary, laughing. “Poor Oscar, he-”

  She was interrupted by David’s phone ringing.

  “David Savile. Oscar! What a surprise – good to hear from you. We really must meet up, it’s been far too long. Rosemary and I don’t have any immediate plans to come up to London, since we’re quite busy here, but when we do– Sorry?

  “Yes, as a matter of fact we are throwing a party for him. How on earth did you know that? Oh, Alfie? Yes, he’s coming, with Betty Thorndike, you know, Elisabeth Thorndike’s daughter. It’s going to be a very grand occasion.

  “Oh no, I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. It never crossed my mind that you would want to come, what with all the pub grub, mud and cows we have down here. Dorian’s bringing loads of his acting friends, and of course so many of our friends are desperate to come and meet him. I’m terribly sorry, Oscar, we just don’t have room for you-”

  Rosemary leaned over and snatched the phone from him. “Oscar, my darling, don’t listen to a word my dreadful husband is saying. I don’t know who’s worse, him or Alfie, who’s sitting here trying to look innocent.

  “Of course you must come. In fact, to make sure you get here safely, we’ll send a car for you. And we’ll give you a set of blinkers so that you’re not too traumatised by all the scenery. Perfect. We’ll see you next Saturday.”

  3. Oscar in the Country

  “Excuse me, are you Oscar?”

  Oscar, who had been savouring his glass of Rioja, paused. A middle-aged woman wearing a puffer jacket and a woolly hat was standing by his table with a hopeful expression.

  “I am,” he said, courteously getting to his feet. “Oscar de Linnet. May I help you?”

  “I just wanted to say welcome to Bunburry. I know you won’t like it because it’s the country but give it a chance.”

  “It’s utterly charming, from what I’ve seen of it – like your welcome. Thank you.”

  Oscar waited for the woman to move on, but she stayed where she was.

  “You don’t know who I am, do you?” she said. “I’m Dorothy, from the post office.”

  Oscar hadn’t the faintest idea who this might be. “Of course, Dorothy from the post office. A delight to meet you – won’t you sit down?”

  “Oh no, I must get on. But I had to tell you how much we enjoy your addresses.”

  This made no sense to Oscar. “It’s very sweet of you to say so,” he said.

  The door of The Drunken Horse opened and Dorothy turned to the elderly couple who came in.

  “Look who’s here,” she called. “It’s Oscar – come and say hello to him.”

  Oscar found himself introduced to Joan and Ernie who duly sat down at his table. Dorothy turned down a second invitation to stay.

  “Must dash. But enjoy the party tomorrow, Oscar – so exciting, isn’t it? Sixty guests, the house is absolutely chokka. The preparations sound amazing. Ice sculptures and Japanese fireworks. I can’t wait to hear about it.” With a wave, she left.

  “What’s wrong with English fireworks?” asked Ernie. “And what’s the point of ice sculptures? They’ll only melt.”

  “Just as well you’re not invited,” said Joan. She turned to Oscar. “He’s an old misery. I don’t know why, since he’s two quid up, thanks to you.”

  “How marvellous,” said Oscar, who was certain he had never had any financial involvement with Ernie. “I’m delighted to hear it.”

  He was greatly relieved when the next person to walk through the door was Alfie. Oscar rushed to greet him, caught him in a bear hug, and hissed: “Get me out of here. Right now.”

  “Joan. Ernie.” Alfie nodded to the elderly couple. “Sorry to break things up but I have to check that Oscar’s brought all the things I need for the party. I may have to dash into Cheltenham for a bow tie - he’s so forgetful.”

  Oscar gave a sigh. “And he’s so impatient. Excuse me.” He raised a hand in farewell. “A great pleasure to meet you both.”

 
“You haven’t finished your wine,” said Ernie.

  “I’ll take it with me,” said Oscar, snatching up the glass.

  Once he was safely in the guest room, he flung himself down on the four-poster bed and covered his face with his hands.

  “This is the craziest place I’ve ever been. When I arrived, I was met at the door by the redoubtable Edith, and do you know the first thing she said to me?”

  “‘Hello, Oscar’?”

  “All right, the second thing she said to me. She said: ‘I’ll ring Alfie and tell him you’re here, because I know you don’t like making calls on your phone.’ How did she know that?”

  “That’s how it is in the country,” said Alfie. “Everybody knows everything about everybody else.”

  “It’s very disturbing. I wouldn’t be surprised if they know my shoe size.”

  “Oscar, believe me, by now they all know your inside leg measurement.”

  Oscar raised himself up on one elbow and rubbed his brow. “They know things about me that even I don’t know. They like my addresses, but I thought I only had the one in Belgravia. And I’ve apparently given money to Ernie.”

  “It’s the sweepstake,” said Alfie. “They bet on the contents of the parcels you send me, fifty pence a go. The winnings are capped at two pounds and the rest goes to charity. Ernie correctly guessed that the last one was Patum Peperium.”

  Oscar groaned. “Madness.”

  “And the addresses you put on the parcels are now the stuff of legend. They particularly enjoyed The Tumbledown Shack, Slough of Despond, although Dorothy did say that risked the sorting office sending it to Slough. But at least you always put on the accurate post code.”

  Oscar rubbed his eyes and sat up. “Make yourself a coffee,” he said, waving a hand at the chrome coffee machine. “I need to finish this wine.”

  Alfie shook his head. “Drink up. I’m under orders to take you to Liz and Marge.”

  Alfie talked about the ladies so often that Oscar felt he knew them already. And they apparently felt the same: Liz, the elder, comfortably proportioned and smelling faintly of caramelised sugar, greeted him with a hug and a kiss. Marge, petite and white-haired, assessed him keenly through her giant spectacles, then grasped his hand and patted it, saying: “Alfie never told us you were so good-looking.”