by Mike Ripley
Thomas Spark shrugged his broad shoulders again, tipping the last pellets of feed in the bucket on to the head of an overenthusiastic pig.
‘Not especially. He’d seen the prince in Sweethearting many a time.’
‘How interesting,’ said Campion quietly, and rather absent-mindedly reached out to pat the nearest pig on the head, then, remembering just in time that pigs had teeth, withdrew his hand. ‘How very interesting.’
Their room at the King’s Head had the luxury of a private bathroom and a hair-dryer, so Perdita insisted that as they were expected to appear in character that evening they might as well go the whole hog and use the hair dye she had bought. It would be a painless – though messy unless Rupert stopped fidgeting and kept a towel round his shoulders – process and the results would be spectacular. She would achieve the impossible and be able to pass for thirty-nine, whereas Rupert would no longer be a redhead which, she teased, would make him look at least forty-nine.
Feeling more than a little foolish, Rupert dutifully sat on the edges of the bed with a towel round his shoulders for the half-hour recommended by the manufacturers of the evil-smelling dyestuff while Perdita bent over the bathroom sink and tackled her own coiffure.
‘I’m quite surprised they have such mod cons as hair-dryers,’ said Rupert, watching his wife’s pert derrière. ‘Did you see the collection of dusty old beer bottles behind the bar? They look positively Victorian: London Porter, Oyster Stout, King’s Ale … They surely can’t be fit to drink.’
‘I didn’t notice,’ said Perdita, her voice distorted by the sink bowl in which her face was buried. ‘Perhaps Mr Yallop is starting his own beer museum. You never know, it could make the pub a tourist attraction.’
‘It would take more than a display of dusty bottles,’ scoffed Rupert, ‘and if this is the Royal Suite, then I hate to think what the steerage accommodation is like.’
‘Don’t be such snob. You’re only playing a king, you know, you’re not really going to ascend the throne. It’s called acting, just try to remember that.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Rupert to the rear view of his wife, an aspect which seemed to be able to move with a momentum which had nothing to do with the laws of gravity.
They dressed in the clothes they had tried on above the Clerkenwell greengrocer’s, and when Perdita had applied her make-up and straightened Rupert’s tie, they left the room with arms linked in stately progress. It was now after six thirty, and through a window on the landing they could see that it was fully dark outside.
From below them came the sounds of a bar coming to life – the clink of glassware, the scrape of furniture being rearranged, the mechanical clang of a cash register being primed – in expectation of the first eager customers of the evening.
‘That’ll be the faithful Sonia,’ Rupert whispered as the couple began to descend the stairs which lead to a door into the main bar. ‘The ancient barmaid who can’t manage the stairs; the landlord warned us about her.’
‘Why are we whispering? If she’s completely doddery then the two of us creeping about might give the poor old thing a heart attack.’
‘You’re right, my dear,’ Rupert said loudly. ‘We’re paying guests after all, not burglars.’
He curved his left arm so that Perdita could hook her right arm through it and opened the door and, like animated figurines of a bride and groom atop a wedding cake, they stepped into the bar only to find it completely deserted.
‘Hello?’ Rupert called out, determined not to skulk.
From behind the bar counter came a thump of something heavy being dropped or closed and a frail female voice said, ‘Be right with you, my dears. What’ll you be having?’
The owner of the voice appeared, or at least the head and shoulders of the owner, peeping round a trident of black wooden beer pump handles. The face, the shape and whiteness of a china side plate belonged to an elderly lady with a blue-rinsed perm.
Even across the width of the bar, Rupert could see her eyes widen and her mouth drop slowly open as if she was seeing her first-ever customers. He raised his right hand in a sort of limp wave and was about to reassure the woman that no service was required when she began to speak.
‘Oh my good God above! It’s you again!’
Then the woman’s eyeballs turned up into her head and she fainted, falling sideways out of sight behind the bar, only a loud, unhealthy thump signifying the exact moment she hit the floor.
SEVEN
Unit
‘I’ve often wondered what a film producer actually does,’ said Oliver Bell airily.
‘So have I,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Let’s find out together, shall we?’
The two men stood at the front door of Heronhoe Hall and watched the small, angular Citroën bounce up the driveway, its hydraulic suspension system reminding Campion of the gait of a drunken frog. As it drew nearer and sighed to a halt, it was clear that the car needed all the suspension it could get as it appeared to be packed from footwell to roof with equipment as well as three people.
‘A left-hand-drive French car,’ observed Oliver, ‘how cosmopolitan.’
‘It gets even more so, as the film crew is Italian,’ said Mr Campion. ‘We must keep in with all our European neighbours if we’re ever going to join the Common Market.’
The driver’s door of the car opened and a long, leather-clad leg emerged, then a matching black leather-clad female body followed almost immediately.
‘Buona sera, Signora Petraglia, come sta?’ said Campion, nodding formally.
‘Bene, grazie. E lei? But please, Mister Campion, call me Daniela.’
‘Of course. Daniela, can I introduce Oliver Grieg Bell, the …’
‘Ollie, please call me Ollie,’ said a quivering Oliver, offering a hand which was already shaking.
‘Mr Bell,’ said Campion firmly, ‘is the owner of the hall and will be delighted to allow you the run of the place. You’ll find him very hospitable.’ His voice took a more serious tone. ‘As is his charming wife, Lavinia, whom I think is making coffee for us all as we speak.’
‘Er … yes … she is. Please come into the kitchen. It’s only instant, I’m afraid, but you and your associates are very welcome.’
Signora Petraglia smiled graciously.
‘Please do not go to trouble on our behalf, Mr Bell.’ She smiled again and Campion was sure he saw Oliver’s knees buckle slightly. ‘We have had our coffee this morning but we would like to see this famous house. This is Gianfranco, my cameraman, and Maurizio, our sound engineer. I am afraid neither of them speaks English very well.’
Campion had watched the two sallow-skinned, dark-haired young men emerge quietly from the Citroën and take up positions behind and to each side of the leather-suited Valkyrie currently hypnotizing Oliver Bell. They were already scouring every inch of the front of the house with their eyes, although Oliver did not seem to have registered their presence.
‘Let’s not keep Lavinia waiting,’ said Campion. ‘Shall we go inside?’
‘Have you thought about a music soundtrack for your film?’ Oliver asked hopefully as he opened the front door for his awesome guest.
Lavinia Bell’s reaction to their Italian visitor was less enthusiastic but possibly entirely predictable, and Campion locked his jaw to prevent the progress of an uncouth smile. The tinkling of Oliver’s harpsichord floated through from the front room while Lavinia played a timpani accompaniment of sorts, spooning instant coffee granules out of half-a-dozen mugs and back into a glass jar, angrily rapping the teaspoon on every rim.
‘What is he doing now?’
‘Auditioning, I think,’ said Campion. ‘Perhaps he sees a new career ahead writing film music.’
‘She doesn’t look the sort of woman to be wooed by Oliver’s sweet tinklings on his darling Hattie – as if she wasn’t competition enough!’
‘I really do not think you have cause to be jealous of either, my dear,’ Campion soothed. ‘Oliver is highly unlikely to stand
a chance with Signora Petraglia, and if he is unfaithful with Hattie then at least you’ll hear him being so.’
‘Oh, I’m not seriously worried,’ said Lavinia, screwing the top back on the coffee jar with more force than was necessary. ‘That woman would eat Oliver alive and spit out the gristly bits. Isn’t she a bit too old for the bank holiday motor-biker look? Mind you, she has the figure for it. Where do you think she gets all that leather?’
‘Florence would be my guess. It’s quite the ‘in’ place for leather fashion, or so my wife tells me, and I bow to her expertise in all such matters.’
‘Yes, well, Italians are supposed to be stylish, aren’t they? I just wish that one would go and style somewhere else.’
‘Don’t worry, my dear, they’ll be out of your hair soon enough.’
‘What exactly is she doing here anyway?’
‘Checking out the hall as a suitable location for filming,’ said Campion, ‘although it’s her minions who seem to be investigating the house while she is being serenaded.’
Lavinia opened a drawer in the kitchen cabinet and produced a packet of Silk Cut cigarettes and a box of matches. She placed one between her lips and offered the pack to Campion, who waved it away.
‘No, thank you; I gave up when it was still unfashionable to do so.’
Mrs Bell was not deterred. She lit up and exhaled smoke with feeling.
‘If they’re using the hall as a location, does that mean Edward and Mrs Thing were … doing their thing, so to speak, under this very roof?’
As she concentrated on sucking on her cigarette, there was a lull in the rather ethereal harpsichord music and Campion strained to hear another noise coming from upstairs: the sound of feet on floorboards.
‘Daniela’s minions would seem to think so as they appear to be checking the bedrooms for clues,’ he said.
‘How dare they? The cheeky little swines! I’ll soon settle their hash, as my father would say.’
She dowsed her cigarette under the kitchen tap and inserted the soggy remains into one of the empty brown ale bottles lined up on the draining board.
‘I’m sure Lord Breeze would have them out on their ear toot sweet,’ said Campion, ‘but I crave your patience. For my sake, please, allow them to do their job.’
‘I suppose I must as you’re paying the bills, but I thought the main action was supposed to be down at the Sweethearting Barrow?’
‘It is,’ Campion reassured her. ‘There’s no evidence that Edward and Mrs Simpson stayed here at the hall together, or none that I’m aware of yet.’
‘So why are those people crawling all over my house?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Mr Campion dishonestly.
They both reacted sharply to the click of high heels and turned to face the kitchen doorway where the frame was filled by the statuesque Daniela Petraglia, hands on hips, her leather jacket and trousers creaking softly.
‘We should be going to the boat burial,’ she announced firmly. ‘Your Ollie has offered to guide us there.’
‘Oh, he has, has he?’ breathed Lavinia.
‘It’s really not far,’ said Campion, stepping between the two women in case a buffer was needed. ‘Your actors are waiting their call to rehearsal at the King’s Head in Sweethearting. We saw them last night for dinner and they absolutely look the part.’
‘That is good,’ said the leather lady, ‘and we will see them this evening to go over their moves, but first my crew needs to examine the site, to decide the best angles for our camera and to judge the light quality.’
‘Of course,’ said Campion seriously, ‘and at this time of year, you don’t have much daylight to play with. What a pity we couldn’t do this in the summer when the original dig actually took place.’
The Italian leather jacket creaked loudly this time as its wearer spread her arms in hopeless supplication.
‘What can we do? The deadline is not of our making, but the television company. That is why we need to plan our shots with the camera, to fool the watcher.’
‘So the camera does in fact tell lies?’
The woman pouted as if thinking carefully then smiled.
‘Almost all of the time, and we women are often grateful for it. Do you not agree, Mrs Bell?’
‘I really wouldn’t know about that,’ said Lavinia.
Oliver appeared in the hallway, shrugging his way into an ancient, faded Barbour coat while holding a pair of Wellington boots.
‘Just off over to the dig, darling, to show the crew the lie of the land. I’ll grab some lunch in Sweethearting but be back in plenty of time for dinner.’
‘Do have fun, my dear,’ Lavinia responded unenthusiastically, though her husband failed to register the icy chill in her tone.
‘I say, Albert, do you think I should take them by way of Windy Ridge Farm and introduce them to Mr Spark?’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ said Campion. ‘Farmer Spark seems quite relaxed about what we’re doing and I got the distinct impression that unannounced visitors are not exactly welcome at Windy Ridge.’
‘Happy to take your advice on that. Can’t say we’ve had much to do with Spark – doesn’t seem interested in being neighbourly at all. We’ve even invited him and his wife over for dinner a couple of times but couldn’t get them to rise to the bait. Still, we’d better get going. Are you joining us, Albert?’
‘No,’ said Campion, ‘not just at the moment, but you could do me a favour if you would while you’re there.’
‘Sure.’
‘Ask Precious if she would be so kind as to pop back here with her van in about an hour, after she’s met our visitors, of course.’ Campion turned to Daniela Petraglia and beamed. ‘Precious is our lead archaeologist and I think the two of you will get on like a house on fire.’
‘She’s American,’ gushed Oliver, ‘and female too. The women seem to be in charge all round these days.’
Only Campion, the nearest to her, heard Lavinia’s muttered ‘Idiot!’ before he piped up chirpily, ‘Oh come on, Oliver, we all know that behind every successful man there’s a rather surprised woman.’
‘Er … quite,’ said Oliver doubtfully. ‘Shall we avanti over to the archaeology?’
Campion and Lavinia watched from the front door as Oliver, Daniela and her two associates squeezed into the Citroën and the car sank even lower on its hydraulics before it bounced down the drive.
‘How does that woman drive in those heels?’ Lavinia asked. ‘How does she even walk in them? And how on earth does she get out of those tight leather pants?’
‘There is a very coarse answer to that,’ said Campion, ‘but one more suited to the music hall or a Carry On film than polite company.’
‘Oliver seemed quite smitten and desperate to impress. Is avanti really a word in Italian?’
‘Yes, it is, but not the right one.’ Campion smiled. ‘Now, can I impose upon your hospitality even further and make use of your telephone? I insist you send me your bill for this month, by the way.’
‘You’ve been far too generous already,’ said Lavinia, ‘and anyway, Precious has insisted on paying for all her calls.’
‘Precious? She hasn’t been ringing America, has she?’
‘I don’t think so. I mean, she would have said if she was phoning trans-Atlantic, wouldn’t she?’
‘I would certainly hope so. She seems a good-hearted soul, which I intend to take advantage of today. My only frisson of surprise was that I’m not sure how many people she knows to phone in this country.’
‘Well, she certainly knows somebody. She uses the phone every night and always makes sure nobody’s about when she does. Perhaps she’s a quick worker and has found a boyfriend already.’
Campion raised his eyebrows and shook his head slowly, his lips moving in silent counting.
‘… Four … five. That’s quite enough time to waste on me being shocked by the younger generation, now let us be shocked by the older one.’
; ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Try and avoid eye contact where possible, though he’s actually quite harmless.’
‘What? I’m not with you, Albert.’
‘Down the drive, hiding behind one of the conifers which rather fails to conceal much of his girth. It’s Lugg, waiting for the coast to clear. Like a faithful gundog he’ll come trotting up with his first report in his slobbering jowls, or then again he may just be after a second breakfast.’
Lugg had made himself comfortable in the kitchen and induced Lavinia into providing him with a pot of tea and two doorstep slices of toast and Marmite while Campion was on the phone.
‘Nice house you’ve got here,’ he told his hostess, ‘or it will be when it’s finished. Your improvements, that is; long overdue, they are, if you ask me. The Mad Major never spent a brass farthing on the place from what I heard. Mind you, if he’d had a brass farthing to spare he would probably have put it on a nag somewhere. The Bookie’s Friend, that’s what they called him.’
‘Did you know Wemyss-Grendle?’ Lavinia asked her guest, although ‘guest’ seemed a loose term for the large ancient figure who had planted himself at the kitchen table and was currently overflowing the edges of a rickety wooden chair and crunching toast, occasionally picking wayward crumbs from the front of the dark-blue seaman’s pullover stretched taut across his stomach.
‘Do I look like a bookies’ runner? Nah, I didn’t know ’im and there weren’t many in polite society would admit to knowing ’im, but I did stay here that once, with his nibs, back in ’thirty-five. A good year for port, that was, so I’m told; not much else, but good for port if you had the sense and the means to lay a few bottles down.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Campion, gliding into the kitchen. ‘This old recidivist isn’t trying to sell you something, is he, Lavinia?’
‘Just making polite conversation,’ whined Lugg, ‘to fill in the hours while others are busy with idle chitchat on the blower.’
‘Filling your face and stomach by the looks of it, and neither my chit nor my chat on the telephone was idle. On the contrary, that call was quite productive.’ He turned to address Lavinia. ‘And there may be a call back this afternoon from an Inspector Chamley of the CID up in Ipswich. I’ve told him to leave a message with you. I hope you don’t mind.’