by Peter Helton
Guy’s face looked ashen in the grey light that struggled through the windows as he returned to his chair. Cy, Paul the cameraman and the bald-headed soundman, whose name I still didn’t know, were talking shop again with serious faces while Andrea the head archaeologist and Emms the director started playing ‘thunderstorms I have seen’. I was sitting near the fireplace with Stoneking while Guy sat apart from all of us in a narrow armchair by the window, looking peeved. All of us, whether peeved, talking shop or swapping Tuscan thunderstorm stories, found time to stuff ourselves with strawberry tart or sticky chocolate cake or, as in my case, both.
Despite the talking and cake munching I detected an odd tension in the room, as though we were all half listening out to something other than our conversations. The sky darkened even further and then all at once we stopped talking, as though by a pre-arranged signal. Everyone looked up. It went very quiet in the room, the only sound the swishing of the rain. The hairs on my arm were rising up as though pulled by a magnet and beside me Mark raised a hairy hand to show me the same phenomenon. The lights winked out, thunder crashed, the windows rattled and the ground seemed to shake. Guy let out a short scream and knocked over his coffee cup. A few seconds later we could hear another, more earthly crash outside.
Stoneking had jumped up. ‘That was a lightning strike. It must have struck the house. I’ll go and check if there’s any damage.’
‘Sounded like there was,’ I said and made to follow him, but Guy was by my side and grabbed my arm to hold me back. With the lights gone, the shadows of dusk had risen in the room even though it was not yet five in the afternoon. But there was enough light to see he was frightened. ‘Come with us,’ I told him.
He did. Armed with umbrellas from a stand in the hall we left by the front door. We followed Stoneking, who marched around the building, stopping from time to time to peer up into the rain and thunder, looking for damage in the roof. On the north side, just beyond the swimming pool extension, we found it in the original roof. On the ground lay some crumbled sandstone masonry and a raft of ceramic roof tiles, all broken. Stoneking cursed fluently and inventively as he kicked at the debris. He pointed up into the gloom. ‘It hit one of the lightning conductors near those chimneys and knocked a few thousand quid’s worth of tiles off the roof.’
‘But at least we’re not on fire,’ I offered.
He gave me a disgusted look. ‘Glass half bloody full, is it?’
The lights came back on, both inside the house and in the loft of the coach house where the incident room was. ‘Lights are back,’ Guy said with relief. ‘I’m going back inside; I’m getting soaked even under my brollie.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ said Stoneking. Wind gusted around us, making all of us fight with our umbrellas. Stoneking closed his and swore some more. ‘Bloody useless things.’
Just as mine was threatening to turn inside out in a fresh gust of wind, a fast-moving shadow in the corner of my eye made me squint up towards the roof. A dark shape was hurtling towards the ground. I shouted a warning: ‘Guy, watch out!’
Guy wheeled around towards me but it was too late: a huge decorative stone urn crashed at his feet, making him stagger and fall on his back. We rushed towards him, squinting up to see if any more of Tarmford Hall was on its way down, and helped him up.
Stoneking swore incoherently.
‘That was bloody close!’ I said unnecessarily.
Guy looked dazed. ‘Tell me about it! It knocked the umbrella out of my hand, that’s how close it was. Bloody hell, look at my clothes!’ Like all three of us he was wet but as an added bonus Guy was covered in dirt and sandstone grains from the exploded urn. ‘I couldn’t be muddier if I was staying in a tent with the damned diggers.’ He was shaking with shock or with rage or both.
Back inside we splished across the hall, leaving damp prints on expensive rugs. The door to the library was open, the room empty apart from Carla who was collecting cups and plates. ‘They all went to watch the lightning after you went out,’ she explained.
On our way upstairs to change into dry clothes Guy never stopped bitching. ‘Things aren’t right, Chris, things aren’t bloody right. I could have been killed out there. Why the hell did you not stay inside with me as I asked? Why did I listen to you? You’re working for me, remember? Next time I ask you to stick with me you stick with me, clear? It’s what you get paid for. I don’t know. This has got to be one of the worst digs we’ve filmed for a long time. If not ever.’ He stomped up the stairs ahead of me. ‘I’m seriously thinking of moving back to a hotel . . . problem is . . . I’d have to . . . pay for it myself this time . . . and drive here every . . . sodding morning.’ Eventually he ran out of puff near the top of the stairs and shut up to catch his breath. I peeled off through the narrow door and climbed the servants’ staircase. ‘Top floor, feather dusters and maids’ outfits,’ I announced when I got there. The corridor was empty. I caught my breath by the middle window, which offered me an angled view of that part of the roof from where the urn had been dislodged. Gargoyles, decorative urns and other stone-carved nonsense sat at equal intervals along the parapet so it was quite easy to spot the gap where the one that nearly did for Guy had sat. How unlucky to be right under it when the thing decided to return to earth. I looked down to where I was standing. At my feet a strip of the threadbare carpet was wet. I tested the window – it opened easily and more rain landed on the carpet. For a moment I stood as though transfixed while the rain sprayed in. Someone had recently opened this window. And then closed it again. I took a deep breath. This was where Honeysett was going to earn his money. I climbed through the window on to the sloping rain-slickened pantiles. Did I mention I don’t like heights? And that I like watching rain from inside?
The incline was gentle enough here for me to keep upright, at least in theory, but the tiles were so slippery with algae and rain that soon I was slithering towards the parapet and clawing at them with my fingernails. Fortunately the proportions of the roof were as generous as the rest of the house. When eventually I landed at the lead guttering and sank ankle deep into the rainwater flowing through it I found it was three feet wide and fairly level. Up here the wind tore at me from several directions at once. Lightning danced and thunder crashed above me. Not ten minutes ago lightning had struck this very roof – what had I been thinking? I was wet to the skin and my shoes had filled with tepid rainwater. The sky looked green with menace. I tried not to look up and definitely not down. The tall trees all around moved so violently in the wind that the horizon appeared to be shifting. From where I had landed I could see where the urn had disappeared. I could just make out the rusty smudge that had once been the iron rod that had secured it to the crumbling sandstone. I held on to the parapet and moved cautiously forward, sloshing against the current of rainwater in the gully. I passed a sinister terracotta eagle with part of its beak missing and a moronic looking apelike figure carved in stone. I grabbed hold of its coconut-shaped head to steady myself. As I did I could feel it move a fraction of an inch. When I got to the place where the urn had stood I wished fervently that I hadn’t bothered. There was nothing to see apart from its absence. I ran a wet hand over the rusted remains of the iron rod. I thought I could feel a sharp edge but there were no telltale signs of sawing or levering, just a single scratch where the heavy urn had tilted over the edge. I made myself look down, bending as far over the top of the two-foot wide sandstone parapet as I could without tumbling over it myself. The smashed urn lay directly below like a frozen explosion. If anyone had climbed out here during this storm on the off-chance of flattening Guy with a lucky shot then he was either quite mad or an unbearable optimist.
I began sloshing back to where I had slithered down the roof. The rain was slowing a little now. It made little difference. I couldn’t have been wetter had I jumped into the pool. When I reached the point below the window I looked up just in time to see the light go out in the corridor. It was replaced by an eerie green glow as I became aware of a dar
k shadow above, then the sash window rattled shut. The green light disappeared. ‘No, hey, leave it open, I’m out here!’ I began scrabbling up the tiles on all fours but my haste made me slip back several times. By the time I reached the window and clawed at its frame there was no one to be seen. It had probably been Carla who, on her way to or from her room, finding it open and not thinking anyone mad enough to climb out, closed it. The window wouldn’t budge. I pressed my face against the pane. There was no one on the other side but I could see that the little snick that locked the two parts of the sash had been engaged. Holding on to the wet frame with one hand I felt around in my jacket pocket with the other and eventually closed my hand on my pocket knife. The extended blade was just long enough to budge the snick at the third attempt. I heaved up the lower half and gratefully tumbled through it.
I spent a few moments sitting on the carpet and thinking unpleasant thoughts. Here I was in an English country mansion during a thunderstorm and there was an outside chance that someone had helped that stone urn off the balustrade in order to flatten Guy Middleton with it. Why else had the window been opened during a rainstorm? It was hard to believe but I had unwittingly strayed deep into Agatha Christie country. I hastily shut the window and sought refuge in my room.
I changed into dry clothes and calmed down a bit, though I was seriously thinking of going down one floor to fill my tooth mug with Guy’s single malt. It might help me think. What also might help me think was Annis. When I finally got a couple of wavering bars on my mobile she had the solution. ‘It’s obvious. All you have to do is get them all into the library, say you know who did it and they’ll break down and admit everything and explain the how and the why. Either that or they’ll make a sudden dash for the door. Make sure you have Superintendent Needham waiting outside with a moustache.’
‘Good thinking. Problem is: no one’s actually been murdered yet so that probably won’t work.’
‘Details. Though only a matter of time, surely. But seriously. Do you think someone is trying to kill him?’
‘Not sure. Could be. I’m rapidly going off him myself. But I mean, it’s such an unlikely scenario, this. Assuming for a minute that thing was actually pushed off the parapet, then whoever did it would have had to sprint up the stairs after we had left the house and get out there, then wait in the storm, on the roof, on the off-chance that Guy wandered back that way. And heaving a stone ornament from the roof is the most stupid way of trying to kill anyone. Unless you have an awful lot of practice at it. And with a moving target it’s almost impossible to do. It only works on telly.’
‘A lucky shot, perhaps. What about the rainwater under the window?’
‘Someone could just have had a look as I did. Probably Carla. The window was so streaked with rain I had to open it to see properly. I didn’t see any wet footprints or anything on the carpet. They could have taken their shoes off as they got back in, I suppose.’
‘Oh all right. Just two thoughts, hon.’ Here we go. ‘One – I assume that’s not the only window they could have used? Two – umbrellas. If I were standing up on the roof looking down and you lot all had umbrellas up then you would all look the same.’
‘Stoneking had given up on his and closed it by then.’
‘That still leaves you.’
‘Exactly. You wouldn’t chuck bits of building down if you didn’t know who you were killing.’
‘True. Unless it doesn’t matter who you flatten.’
‘The whole thing seems absurdly unlikely. I think it was just done to scare him, with murder as a possible bonus. And I think he really is scared now.’
‘I’m not surprised. At least you did your job looking after him and managed to shout a warning.’
‘The opposite, actually; I nearly got him killed. I dragged him out there in the first place and when I shouted, he stopped to look and the damn thing very nearly squashed him. Had I shut up it would have missed by quite a margin.’
‘Bum. Well, make sure you keep an eye on the roofline, hon, in case more of the ruin rots down on you.’
‘I suppose that’s why he let Time Lines dig up his lawns in the first place; he needs the money to stop the place from collapsing. They probably pay quite handsomely.’
‘Just make sure they pay you handsomely.’
‘You bet. But this job is turning into a nuisance, never mind the cakes and luxuries.’
‘Did you say cakes?’
‘Not me, must be a bad line.’
‘You need some competent help with those. Why haven’t you wangled me an invite yet?’
‘Possibly because there’s no such word as “an invite”. If you mean an invitation – I’m working on it.’
‘You’re a pedant. You’re my favourite pedant, of course, but still a nit-picking nuisance.’ As I terminated the call I realized I’d forgotten to ask who her second-favourite pedant was.
As for Guy, even as I went off the man I was beginning to feel sorry for him. Someone obviously disliked him enough to want to mess with his mind, leave nasty notes, spike his drink and scratch his car. He’d been scared when we were left in the dark at the museum and quite shaken by having a generous portion of masonry land at his feet. Even if it had been an accident, which was by no means certain, the man had every right to be a bit upset. I went downstairs to see if he had got over the shock yet.
The thunderstorm had moved on, now a distant rumble in the east, but heavy rain continued to fall from a sky so dark it looked like tree bark drawn in charcoal. Middleton’s room smelled strongly of whisky. A depleted bottle of Laphroaig stood on the mantelpiece. When I had left Guy on the stairs he had looked pale; now he looked flushed. ‘There’ll be no more filming today,’ he said. ‘And if it goes on raining like this there won’t be any tomorrow either. I’ve decided to go for a swim, try and relax a bit. Did you know there was a pool downstairs? Steam room, sauna, Jacuzzi, the lot.’
A half-drunk Guy Middleton and a swimming pool, now what could possibly go wrong? ‘I’ll get my cozzie.’
‘Good man.’
I’d never been hugely impressed by conspicuous consumption but a heated indoor swimming pool was a luxury I agreed with. As soon as we stepped through the modern door at the end of the lower gallery we left gothic revival behind and found ourselves in the twenty-first century again. Here, white walls, bright wood and terracotta tiles, illuminated by recessed lighting and large skylights, created a completely different atmosphere. The unmistakable smell of chlorinated water pervaded the air and the echoing sounds of watery pursuits brought back memories of humbler pools at public swimming baths for me.
While the rest of the mansion was strictly roll-top baths and brass fittings, here everything was aggressively contemporary. The showers started automatically as soon as we stepped into the cubicles and stopped as we left them. Lighting brightened as we walked on through the corridor and dimmed behind us.
The pool house had no windows but a pitched roof of blond timber and glass. The white walls were unadorned, with groups of wicker furniture and a dozen or so palms in giant pots making up for the plainness. The pool itself was a turquoise triangle of wet loveliness. A woman in a blue one-piece bathing suit and white swimming cap was doing a competent crawl towards our end as we entered. When she reached our side and turned for another length I saw that it was Carla.
‘Perfect shape for a housekeeper, don’t you think?’ said Guy. Both of us, I noticed, had instinctively pulled in our less-than-perfectly shaped stomachs. I jumped in, closely followed by a belly-flopping Middleton. We ended up doing a sedate breast stroke next to each other while Carla torpedoed up and down at twice the speed. ‘Always wanted a heated pool,’ Guy said. ‘No point having an unheated one in this country, is there? But a couple of expensive divorces ballsed that up good and proper. And other unforeseen expenses.’ He put on an angry spurt of speed, took a loud breath and dived across towards the advancing shape of Carla. With some effort he managed accidentally to collide with her. Carl
a pushed herself away from him. She tread water for a couple of seconds. I could see she was saying something to Guy but couldn’t catch it and my lip-reading skills weren’t up to it, which meant she hadn’t said anything obvious. She didn’t wait around for his insincere apologies. Quick as a dolphin she turned and with a few strokes reached the edge of the pool where she pulled herself effortlessly out of the water. She left the pool house without looking back.
‘That was subtle,’ I said admiringly. ‘Do they teach the underwater grope at RADA?’
‘Oh, shut up and mind your own business.’ He was very flushed now and made for the side of the pool himself where he held on and tread water to get his breath back. I did a couple of lengths to make myself feel virtuous but only managed to confirm to myself how ridiculously unfit I had become.
Guy was out of the water and stood dripping over me. ‘I’m going to sweat it off. Come on, let’s find the sauna.’ He padded off towards a couple of doors with brightly lit windows by the narrow end of the pool.
I called after him. ‘I hate saunas; you won’t get me into one of those.’
He opened first one door, looked inside, then tried the other one. ‘How about the steam room then? Not quite as insane.’ He disappeared inside.
Reluctantly I followed him in. One Istanbul Turkish bath experience had been quite enough for me. It had done nothing to endear me to the weird notion of steaming oneself like a bundle of mustard greens in the sweaty company of hairy men. I was just about to point this out to Guy when I saw that he had found company of a more smooth-skinned nature. In a corner opposite us sat Andrea, the head archaeologist, wrapped in a small white towel. On her the sweat looked OK, but even through the steam and despite her polite expression I could see she was disappointed by our intrusion and possibly wished for a larger towel, too. Guy launched into a detailed account of his recent masonry adventure and Andrea crossed her legs and kept her comments short.