by Peter Mayle
Andre felt surprisingly fresh, having avoided alcohol and slept for six hours. If the traffic wasn’t too bad, he could be down in Wiltshire before lunch, spend the afternoon and the following morning shooting, and be back at Heathrow in time for an evening flight to Nice. Encouraged by this cheerful thought, he made the mistake of smiling at the customs officer as he was going through the green channel. And was, of course, stopped.
“Open that one, sir, if you don’t mind.”
The customs officer looked at the array of equipment in the bag and lifted an eyebrow. “Amateur photographer, are we, sir?”
“Professional. I take pictures for magazines.”
“I see.” The voice flat and unconvinced. “Been at it long?”
“A few years, yes.”
“But not with this equipment.”
“No.” Why did he feel guilty? “My stuff was stolen. I bought all this last week in New York.”
A chilly smile, and permission to proceed.
Swearing never again to make eye contact with customs officials, he headed west in his rented Ford, among cars that looked like toys after the road monsters of America. He wondered how many smugglers were caught and what they were caught with. Care packages of China White? Items prejudicial to public safety? Or was it more likely to be a wicked extra bottle of duty-free brandy and a bootleg laptop? How would one smuggle something bigger, something like a painting? He pushed the car up to eighty, anxious to be done with the job and off to meet Cyrus Pine.
The drizzle gave way to heavy, windblown rain as he left the suburbs behind and reached the plump green hills and neat small fields of Wiltshire. What a beautiful country England would be if someone turned off the water. Andre peered through the metronome sweep of the windshield wipers, looking for the side road that led to the village where he was to ask for directions to his final destination.
He very nearly drove through it, Nether Trollope being not much more than a single-street hamlet. A straggle of beamed cottages, dour and dripping under the rain, a tiny post office and general store, and a pub.
The Lamprey Arms announced itself to passersby with a weather-beaten painted sign that showed a creature resembling a worm—rampant and with a prominent set of teeth—writhing above a peeling and indecipherable Latin motto. A supplementary inducement hanging from the bottom of the sign offered Pub Grub. Andre pulled into the car park and walked across waterlogged gravel, his footprints turning instantly to puddles.
Whatever conversation had been going on ceased as he pushed open the door and the half-dozen customers turned to stare at him. The other silent greeting was a strong whiff of beer and stale smoke, mingling with overtones of damp clothes. A hissing coal fire struggled for life in the grate, any warmth from it absorbed by the sleeping bulk of a venerable black Labrador, its gray muzzle twitching in dreams. Behind the bar, a stout, dark-haired woman glowed with the implausible radiance achieved by an overgenerous hand with makeup.
“Morning, dear,” she said. “Nice day for it. What’s it going to be?”
Andre ordered a beer. The mutter of voices resumed, low and secretive, as though gardening and football were forbidden subjects.
“There you are, dear.” The barmaid put Andre’s beer in front of him. “Just passing through, are you?” She looked at him, her inquisitive eyes bright against the pools of midnight-blue eye shadow.
“I wonder if you can help me,” said Andre. “I’m looking for Throttle Hall.”
“Off to see his lordship, are you?” She puffed on a cigarette. That, too, had been cosmetically enhanced, by a smear of lipstick on the filter. “It’s only five minutes up the road. Big iron gates, with one of them nasty things on the top. You can’t miss it.”
“Nasty things?”
“It’s your lamprey, isn’t it? Like the one on the sign. Sort of an eel with teeth, gives me the shudders, but there you are. I’d much rather have a nice dog and duck or a royal oak, but seeing as it’s Lord Lamprey’s pub, we have to grin and bear it.”
“That’s a historical creature, Rita.” One of the customers joined in. “Dates back. Traditional.”
“I don’t care.” Rita lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of her old one. “Gives me the shudders,” she said again. “It’s the teeth.”
Andre removed his elbow from a beer slick on the bar. “Does Lord Lamprey come in often?”
Rita sniffed. “Not so’s you’d notice. Daphne does, though. His daughter.” She nodded two or three times and winked. “Saturday nights.” She gave Andre a significant glance under lowered eyelids. “Likes her little bit of fun, does Daphne. Oh, yes.”
Andre ignored the unspoken invitation to ask exactly what Daphne did on Saturday nights. “And Lady Lamprey? Do you see much of her?”
Rita abandoned her post behind the beer pumps to edge closer. “Lady L.,” she said, her voice hardly above a whisper, “did a runner, didn’t she? Went off with a solicitor from Salisbury.” She applied more lipstick to her cigarette. “Years younger than her, he was. But you know what they say.”
Andre didn’t, and he didn’t think he wanted to. He distracted Rita from making further revelations by ordering what was advertised on the blackboard as a Ploughman’s Lunch. This turned out to be a small log of bread, a foil-wrapped pat of Dairy Fresh butter, a slab of cheese, and two large and viciously overpickled onions. The paper napkin showed a fat man in a chef’s hat waving a banner that said Hearty Fayre. Andre used it to muffle the acrid smell of the onions. He felt sorry for ploughmen.
Half an hour later, with lunch a solid, unforgiving memory in his stomach, Andre got out of the car and pushed open the gates to a wide gravel drive that curved away through parkland dotted with stands of magnificent old chestnuts and oaks. He drove through, then walked back to close the gates. A group of sodden sheep turned to examine him. One of them bleated, a thin, plaintive sound that barely carried above the drumming of rain on the gravel. Andre shivered and headed up the drive.
Pringle’s Guide to the Stately Homes of England lists Throttle Hall as “an imposing manor house of sixteenth-century origins and subsequent additions,” a benevolent description that glosses over four hundred years of architectural mayhem. Previous Lord Lampreys, when in funds, had indulged themselves with extensions, annexes, follies, buttresses—some of them flying—crenellations, pediments, and Gothic flourishes, until the Elizabethan symmetry of the original building was completely hidden. Now, approaching the twenty-first century, Throttle Hall was a rambling barracks of spectacular ugliness. As Andre parked the car and got out, he was grateful that exteriors weren’t part of the assignment.
His first tug of the bell pull hanging by the studded double doors produced nothing except the rasp of iron against stone. He pulled harder and was rewarded by the sound of distant barking, which quickly became closer and more agitated. He heard paws scrabbling against the other side of the door, then a curse, and finally the screech of an unoiled lock. He stepped to one side as the door opened and a group of lanky, rust-colored dogs tumbled out, whining and wriggling with excitement, leaping up to pin him against the wall.
“You’ll be the photographer, I suppose.”
Andre pushed one of the dogs away from his groin and looked up to see an elderly figure in a long apron over black trousers and waistcoat, shirtsleeves rolled above scrawny mottled forearms, hands in grimy white cotton gloves. The face, beneath strands of hair plastered across his skull, was narrow and pale, the only touches of color provided by a tracery of broken veins on his cheeks.
Andre nodded. “That’s right. Lord Lamprey?”
“Watching the racing.” The custodian sniffed and jerked his head. “Follow me.” With an escort of scampering dogs, he led Andre into the gloom of the interior, walking with short, careful steps, his body tilted forward, as if the floor were covered in ice. They passed through a somber flagstone hall, beneath the gaze of past Lampreys in their cracked gilt frames, and down a paneled corridor. It was cold, colder than outsid
e, the particular damp English cold that works its way up from the ground and creeps through the body, leaving chilblains and rheumatism and bronchitis in its wake. Andre looked in vain for radiators.
As they approached an open door at the end of the corridor, Andre could hear the high-speed babble of a television commentator, interrupted by a deeper, more patrician bellow: “Give him the whip, you bloody fool. Give him the whip!” And then a groan of disappointment.
They stopped in the doorway. The old man coughed loudly. “The photographer, my lord.”
“What? Ah, the photographer.” Lord Lamprey continued to stare at the television as the horses cantered back to the enclosure. “Well, go and fetch him, Spink. Bring him in.”
Spink raised his eyes to the ceiling. “He’s here, my lord.”
Lord Lamprey looked around. “Good God, so he is.” He put his glass on a side table and pushed himself up from his armchair, a tall, burly man with a ravaged, once-handsome face and a florid outdoor complexion. Andre could see scuffed suede shoes and brown corduroy trousers below the hem of a long tweed overcoat, its collar turned up against the brisk nip in the air.
“Lamprey. How d’you do.” The hand he extended to Andre felt like chilled leather.
“Kelly.” Andre nodded toward the television. “Don’t let me take you away from the …”
“There’s half an hour before the next race—plenty of time for a dish of tea. Spink, what about a dish of tea?”
Spink muttered to Andre out of the side of his mouth. “First he tells me to clean the silver. Now he wants tea. I’ve only got one pair of effing hands, haven’t I?” And then: “Darjeeling or China, my lord?”
“I think Darjeeling. We’ll take it in the long gallery, so that Mr. Kelly can have a squint at the tapestries.”
Lamprey led the way down the corridor past a succession of large rooms, their furniture covered with dust sheets, before stopping at the foot of a wide oak staircase. He stopped on the first step and patted the carved banister. “Elizabethan,” he said. “The place is a bit of a warehouse, as you may have noticed. My ancestors were magpies, always coming home with something or other—statues, paintings, unsuitable wives.” They had reached the top of the stairs, and Lamprey threw out a hand toward the tapestries. “And these, of course.”
The gallery extended on either side of the staircase, a run of perhaps sixty feet, with tapestries stretching the entire length, some hanging on rods, others framed as panels. “Gobelins, most of them,” said Lamprey. “Rather splendid, don’t you think?”
Andre murmured in agreement as he walked slowly past the beautiful muted colors, his mind taken up with the technical difficulties of shooting in the narrow, badly lit gallery. Whatever else had been changed at Throttle Hall over the centuries, the original electrical fixtures remained—early twentieth century, with plug sockets rationed to one per wall. Lighting would be a problem.
Tea arrived, dark brown and thoroughly stewed. Spink showed no sign of wanting to return to his silver cleaning but stood with his arms folded, sucking his teeth. Andre warmed his hands on his teacup and caught Lord Lamprey looking at his watch as he turned away from the tapestries. “They’re magnificent,” said Andre. “How long have they been in the family?”
“Brought back from France in the eighteenth century.” Lamprey walked across and ran his fingers over one of them. “Priceless now, of course.”
Spink edged sideways until Andre was in range of a whisper tinged with gin. “Nicked, they were. All nicked, every last one. Never paid a penny for them.” With the back of his hand, he wiped a dewdrop from the end of his nose and sniffed. “Talk about daylight robbery.”
“Well,” said Lamprey, “mustn’t hang around here getting in your way.”
“Mustn’t miss the start of the two-thirty,” muttered Spink.
After a frustrating hour spent rigging the lighting, replacing blown fuses, and overcoming the eccentricities of wiring that was well past retirement age, Andre was able to start shooting. From time to time, Spink would appear at the foot of the staircase and look upward, with pursed lips, before returning to the servants’ quarters and the comforts of his gin. Of Lord Lamprey there was no sign. By seven o’clock, when he was bidden by Spink to change for dinner, Andre felt satisfied that he was more than halfway there; if the electricity held out, another three hours in the morning should see the job done.
He was spending the night in what Spink referred to as the Blue Room, an appropriate name that matched not only the curtains but the effect the temperature had on the skin color of guests. While waiting for a reluctant trickle of hot water to cover the bottom of the bath, Andre made a tour of his bedroom. Despite the good, if shabby, antique furniture, the room held the promise of an acutely uncomfortable night. The springs of the large bed had given up, creating a sagging trough in the middle. A small lamp cast a vestigial glow over one bedside table. On the other table, a tooth glass and a half-empty decanter of whisky had been provided, doubtless to provide numbness that would compensate for the lack of warmth. There was a gas heater, but investigation showed that there was no gas. Andre bathed by sections in three inches of tepid water, dressed as warmly as he could, and made his way downstairs.
The cocktail hour at Throttle Hall was celebrated in one of the smaller sitting rooms, a dim cavern decorated, after the fashion of the Harvard Club, by an enthusiastic taxidermist. At the far end of the room, Lord Lamprey stood with his back to the log fire, his jacket hoisted up to permit the unimpeded passage of warm air to the noble rump. In a corner, Spink pretended to busy himself over the drinks table, holding glasses up to the light and buffing them with his sleeve. As Andre walked across the room, dogs converged on him in a paroxysm of welcome.
“Kick ’em if they bother you,” said Lord Lamprey. “Splendid people, Irish setters, but no sense of decorum. Fitz! Fitz! Get down!”
The dogs took no notice. “Which one’s Fitz?” Andre asked.
“They all are. Down, damn you! Never could tell them apart, so it was easier to give them the same name. What are you drinking?”
Spink, it appeared, had already decided. He thrust a tumbler on a silver tray under Andre’s nose. “Whisky.” The word came from the side of his mouth, in his confidential mutter. “Wouldn’t trust the sherry, and we’ve run out of gin.”
Andre was glad to see there was no ice. He pushed his way through the dogs to join his host by the fire. “Snaps going well, I hope,” Lamprey said. “I expect you heard about the last chap, did you? Led into bad ways by my daughter, I’m afraid, and fell off a horse.”
“So I heard.”
“Trouble is, Daphne thinks everyone can ride like her, but she’s been on horses since she was three. Rides like a man. Wonderful seat.”
The two of them shared the fire in silence, and for the first time since his arrival, Andre began to feel warm. It was not to last. With the look of someone weighed down by the burden of grave organizational problems, Spink approached them, tapping his watch as he came. “Cook said seven-thirty, or it’ll spoil.”
Lamprey sighed. “Where’s Daphne? Damned women. Why are they always late? Eh, Spink?”
Spink leered. “Titivating, my lord, I dare say.”
“We’ll have to go in without her. Wouldn’t do to upset cook.” Lamprey drained his glass, handed it to Spink, and dislodged a dog that had been lying across his feet. He led Andre through the door and across a hallway, grumbling as he went about his daughter’s cavalier sense of time—wouldn’t keep her bloody horses waiting, treats the house like a hotel, young people nowadays all the same, punctuality a thing of the past. He was still developing what was obviously a favorite theme as they entered the dining room.
Here were more portraits, this time of the Lamprey women. Some of them, with their sharp faces and glassy eyes, bore a strong family resemblance to the giant badger whose mounted head snarled above the fireplace. The long oak table was set for three beneath a heavy chandelier, and Andre half expecte
d to see the tiny candle-shaped bulbs start to gutter in the stiff breeze coming through chinks in the leaded windows.
Lord Lamprey settled himself at the head of the table, ringing a small silver bell vigorously before reaching for the wine bottle. He peered at the label and grunted. “We’re in luck. It’s the ’69 Latour. I thought Spink had drunk it all.” He poured a little into his glass and sniffed it. “Splendid. Are you a wine man, Kelly?”
“I certainly am.”
“Pity.” He reached over and half filled Andre’s glass.
“Has Spink been with you long?”
“Thirty years, maybe longer. Started helping out belowdecks, in the scullery. Stayed on.” Lamprey chewed on his wine. “Funny old cove, but we’re used to each other now, and he pretty well runs the house. I’m quite fond of him, really. You know how it is with servants.”
Andre was spared the need to reply by the simultaneous arrival, through different doors, of Spink shuffling in with a soup tureen and, with military, booted step, the daughter of the house, a strapping young woman dressed in riding breeches, roll-neck sweater, and one of the bulky down vests so beloved by rural Englishwomen. “Sorry I’m late, Daddy. Percy’s got colic.” Her voice, resonant and slightly strangulated, echoed through the room; in the orchestra of human voices, hers was a trumpet.
She turned to look at Andre as he stood up.
Lord Lamprey drew back from an examination of his soup. “Mr. Kelly, this is my daughter, Daphne.”
Spink, standing by Andre’s side with tureen poised, whispered, “The Honorable Daphne,” his emphasis making Andre wonder if he was supposed to curtsy or drop to one knee. She was staring at him with an intensity that he found disconcerting, her eyes very wide and very blue against the ruddiness of her complexion. Her brown hair was pulled back and tied with a black ribbon, and her forehead showed the faint line left by a recently discarded riding cap. In fifteen years’ time, she would probably have thickened, with her skin coarsened by too much wind and weather. But now, in her early twenties, she had the healthy glow of a well-exercised animal in prime condition.