Both men glowered. But it was the latter who spoke: ‘I may be an ass, Miss Tildred, but at least I am a polite one.’ With the merest shrug, he deftly lit a cigarette, and with left profile well displayed, gazed indifferently at the clouds wafting beyond the window. Cedric regarded him with some pride, while Tippy looked sullen, and the dog woke up and yawned.
In the studio that afternoon there had been a minor shindig. Bartho, true to his inconstancy, had changed the shooting schedule. Aesthetically a reasonable adjustment; socially less so. It had entailed swapping the sequence of scenes from one featuring Robert and two supporting characters, to one involving Tippy. The switch was generally deemed sensible, but there was one dissonant voice: Tippy’s. She had planned to be elsewhere, and was none too pleased to learn that her presence was required on set.
‘Sorry, Tippy,’ Bartho breezed, ‘it can’t be helped. Lie back and think of England – or better still, stand up and think of all that money and fame so nearly in your grasp.’
Tippy pouted. ‘Oh hell,’ she whined, ‘that’s messed everything up. I had organised a lift to Darsham to catch the Ipswich train. There’s a wonderful new boutique there. It’s fearfully hip and wildly expensive. This is the last day of its sale and there’ll be some fantastic bargains – but now I’ll never get another chance. It’s too bad!’
She looked defiant and then winsomely tearful; and Cedric, not without sympathy, was prompted to say, ‘Ah well, that’s life, I’m afraid: a medley of fun and fury. There will be many other such blows to endure – but like the rest of us, doubtless you’ll cope valiantly.’ He flashed a kindly smile.
It was not returned. And instead, she said coldly: ‘It may be your life, Professor, but I do not intend it to be mine.’ With a toss of her head, she flounced to the sideboard and poured a Coca-Cola.
There was an awkward pause, during which Lady Fawcett raised an eyebrow, Cedric cleared his throat and Felix hated her.
Later, over coffee in the lounge of The Swan, the four of them agreed that on the whole Tippy Tildred was not an asset to proceedings, Felix going so far as to suggest that she should have been drowned at birth.
Shelving the topic, they were about to get up and go their separate ways, when Bartholomew appeared in the doorway. He scanned the room, and seeing them, approached quickly. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘glad I’ve caught you. We’ve had an invitation – or at least I have – and I’ve wangled it so that you can come too. I hope that’s all right because, frankly, I don’t really want to go on my own, I hardly know the chap.’ He grinned at them hopefully.
‘What chap and where?’ Rosy asked.
‘Vincent Ramsgate, the travel writer. He knows Cousin Walter, and Walter happened to mention that he had lent me his place for the filming. Ramsgate lives not far from here – Reydon, I think, or near it – and he’s just telephoned to ask if I would like to go over for a party that he is throwing to toast his latest travel book; I gather it has won some prize or other. Most of the other guests will be locals and I shan’t know a soul. So I thanked him for his kind thought, and then mumbled something about being spoken for that evening as it was Angela’s birthday, and a few of us were going down to the Harbour Inn to celebrate, and thus regretfully—’
‘Do you mean my birthday?’ Lady Fawcett exclaimed. ‘But that’s not till November!’
‘Well, now you’ve got two, like the queen,’ Bartholomew chuckled. ‘But, anyway, the excuse didn’t work, because he was most insistent that I should bring you all with me; said his friends would be fascinated to meet members of a real-life film company, especially one as renowned as the mighty Hackle Enterprises and we would enhance their evening.’ He laughed again, and added, ‘Actually, he sounded perfectly genuine, quite keen in fact, so I said we would go. I hope that’s all right?’
‘But except for Felix, we’re not members of your company or its cast,’ Rosy said doubtfully, looking at Cedric and Angela. ‘I mean, we’re just here to cheer things along.’
‘And you do it so beautifully,’ the young man laughed. ‘Yes, of course you are included. After all, it is you who are the vital birthday celebrants all poised for the revels of the Harbour Inn. Ramsgate owes you a party!’
‘Oh really, Bartho,’ Lady Fawcett exclaimed in feigned annoyance, ‘you are no better than Amy: both weavers of rampant invention. Suppose Mr Ramsgate gives me a present?’
‘In that case, dear Angela,’ Cedric observed, ‘you will doubtless accept it with your usual grace and charm. As it happens,’ he continued, ‘I should be intrigued to see Reydon again. The last time I was there was during the war when it was virtually off limits to all but the military, and covered in guns galore. I imagine its peacetime aspect is rather more appealing. I seem to remember a rather striking medieval church and some bluebell woods, though it’s too late in the season for—’
‘Well, I am all for going,’ Felix interrupted. ‘With luck he will be serving champagne – although I trust one will not be required to buy the book. Currently, Cappadocian Capers is as much as I can handle!’ He winked at Cedric.
Rosy also evinced an interest, and enquired if anyone else was included.
Bartholomew nodded and said he had asked Robert and Alicia. ‘They will doubtless strike the expected note of glamour for the locals. Oh yes, and I’ll ask Tippy too: it might soothe ruffled feathers, and I am sure they will appreciate our sprightly starlet.’
‘Sprightly? A posturing gnome!’ Felix was about to mutter. But his mind had already whisked to his new smoking jacket: a matter of greater concern than Tippy Tildred. So far it had not had an airing, and this would be an ideal opportunity. He wondered which tie would look best.
Thus the outing was arranged. And the following evening they set off in two cars for Reydon and Ramsgate’s residence.
This turned out to be a large, aggressively modern house seemingly inspired by the New Brutalism, aspects of art deco and the whims of the local builder. It was on the far outskirts of the town and thickly surrounded by trees – a feature which, Cedric opined, was no bad thing. (‘I certainly don’t recall this being here before,’ he observed tartly, ‘but it’s amazing how quickly new buildings are thrown up these days: they appear from nowhere like disagreeable mushrooms in the night.’)
As they continued up the long drive they saw on the left an expansive lawn populated by a group of sculptures in a strangely eclectic style: a decapitated ostrich, a mermaid with her tail wrapped round her neck, and a cuboid shape of no discernible significance.
‘I say,’ said Felix nervously, ‘do you think there are any more inside?’
But the interior, far from being brutal or eclectic, was in fact surprisingly bland: universally pale grey, spacious, sparsely furnished, and with randomly chosen flowers badly arranged (a detail Felix was quick to notice). In contrast, its owner cut quite a dash. He greeted them effusively, wearing a pair of vivid plaid trews, mustard velvet slippers and, rather bizarrely, a jaunty skullcap (or sort of hybrid fez). Mercifully, his jacket was dark. All the same, Rosy couldn’t help thinking she was being ushered forward by some flunky from a pantomime. Clutching a large cigar, he welcomed them in the richly gravelly tones familiar from his radio talks.
CHAPTER SEVEN
With practised ease they were manoeuvred among the other guests, plied with Felix’s hoped-for champagne, and quickly assimilated into the throng of kindly and inquisitive locals.
Rosy was approached by an elderly gentleman who seemed convinced she was Lana Turner. He produced a biro, and, in the absence of an autograph album, wondered if she would be so kind as to sign the back of his hand. Explaining she was a mere appendage to the film group, she pointed him in the direction of Tippy Tildred, encased from neck to toe in black satin, and looking – as Alicia had once remarked – like a thin eyebrow pencil with yellow top. ‘Now, she’s a real star,’ Rosy laughed, and glancing at the proffered wrist, added, ‘she’ll sign anything.’
‘Wow!’ the old boy exclaimed, and
without further utterance, trundled off towards the obliging Tippy.
‘That was neatly done,’ a low voice said from behind, ‘very slick, if you don’t mind my saying.’
Rosy turned quickly, flustered to have been overheard making such a comment. ‘Oh dear,’ she exclaimed, ‘that was a bit clumsy! I really didn’t mean—’
‘Oh, don’t apologise,’ a tall man with grey cropped hair said, ‘I enjoyed the cabaret – in fact it’s not over yet.’ He nodded to where Tippy stood frowning. The girl was clearly piqued to have been entrapped by one quite so ancient. The biro was still being flourished. ‘You watch,’ the man said quietly, ‘he’ll roll up his trouser leg next.’
They both laughed, and he introduced himself as Mickey Standish, an old friend of their host. ‘Well, more than a friend, really. For my sins I am also his financial advisor: tax and investments and so on. Vincent is hopeless with money, always has been. At school he would blow his pocket money the day he got it, and then wonder why there were no reserves. I put him straight then and I’m still at it.’ He took a sip from his glass; not alcohol, Rosy noticed, but apparently water.
Rosy sipped her own drink and regarded her companion. She rather liked what she saw. Height and hair were complemented by a casual but well-cut suit, and which – unlike the taste of his old friend – was of sober hue. She asked if he lived locally.
‘Oh no,’ he replied, ‘London mainly, that is when I’m not abroad on business. But I come up here from time to time to sort out Vincent’s affairs and to do a spot of fishing. And when he has any London broadcasts he usually stays at my flat. Rather a good arrangement, really: he enjoys the occasional glitz of the metropolis and I bask in the peace of Suffolk. This is a beautiful strip of the coast.’
Rosy agreed, and was about to ask politely whereabouts abroad his business took him, when he enquired of her own job: ‘So since you are not of the movie glitterati, what is it that you do to keep the wolf from the door – or are you a lady of leisure?’ He smiled, glancing around at a number who obviously were.
She told him a little of her work at the British Museum: compiling catalogues and arranging some of its exhibitions; and of the more arduous task of organising her boss, the wayward Dr Stanley. ‘That’s the tricky part,’ she laughed.
‘Yes, I can believe you; I’ve come across him once or twice. Mad as a hatter and brilliant. If you can manage him you must have redoubtable powers. My compliments.’ He gave a wry smile. And then he looked slightly puzzled and stared at her searchingly. ‘I know it sounds odd, but I am pretty sure I’ve seen your photograph somewhere, but can’t think when.’
Rosy was taken aback. ‘I can’t think when either – and it wasn’t in the Tatler that’s for certain!’ She laughed.
‘No,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘not that, but some other rag possibly … Ah yes, The Times about four years ago. Yes that’s it: in connection with the Marcia Beasley case. Weren’t you the niece?’
The question was not what Rosy wanted to hear, not at all! At the time of the case she had tried her level best to keep out of the limelight. Her aunt’s bizarre death and the mystery surrounding it had been a source of acute embarrassment, both initially and even more so later when most of the facts had been revealed (not, mercifully, to the public but to the inner circle of MI5). She had been sworn to secrecy (hardly a penance) but had been living beneath its shadow ever since. The last thing she wanted was for this man, or anyone else, to start raking up a matter she chose to ignore. Frankly, with the lady in question safely dead and buried, she had no desire to talk about Aunt Marcia and her dubious lifestyle.
‘Er, yes,’ she replied uncomfortably, ‘I was the niece. But it all seems rather a long time ago now.’ She laughed again, but this time in a tone she knew must sound false.
Would he leave off? No, of course not! ‘As it happens,’ he continued, ‘I knew her briefly. Quite a girl in her way, but always a bit of a dark horse.’ He paused, and then added, ‘Very dark. In fact, the whole thing was rather a funny old business, wasn’t it? One always thought there was far more there than appeared on the surface … but then, I suppose that’s true of most things – or people.’ He smiled; but it was a smile not so much friendly as sharply quizzical.
Rosy shrugged, and mumbled something evasive about having been scarcely involved and knowing little about the case. Ostensibly this was the truth, but in reality she had been involved up to her neck. The whole thing had been godawful!
Luckily, at that point the topic was interrupted by the arrival of Felix who, having modestly told a group of respectful ladies that in addition to being part of the film company he was also one of the Queen Mother’s most frequent suppliers of flowers, had escaped to draw breath and to review his repertoire. However, so riveting had been the narrative that one from his audience still adhered.
She plucked at his sleeve. ‘A final question, Mr Smythe,’ she pleaded. ‘Tell me, which is Her Majesty’s most favourite flower? Do divulge!’
Felix gazed pensively into the distance, and then with a wistful smile replied: ‘Oh, undoubtedly, it is the gracious delphinium …’ He paused, and then murmured, ‘which of course echoes those peerless blue eyes.’
Just for an instant Rosy saw why Bartholomew had chosen him for a part in that outlandish film! She glanced round to catch her companion’s eye, and saw his tall back disappearing among the crowd of guests.
She turned back to Felix. ‘The last time you were asked that question,’ she said accusingly, ‘you said it was a pink peony to match the delicate bloom of her cheeks.’
‘Yes, well all truth is relative,’ he said, scanning the room for some more smoked caviar.
A little later Rosy saw Alicia Gorringe and Robert Kestrel over by the window. They stood close together, the one looking sullen, the other characteristically smouldering. Their attention was clearly fixed on Tippy, who (by now having extricated herself from the clutches of the autograph hunter) was being gamine and winsome among a group of chortling young men. Alicia’s thunderous gaze was diverted by a sudden blast from the gramophone, and seeing Rosy she waved and beckoned her over.
Moving in their direction, she passed Cedric in close conversation with Ramsgate. The two writers formed an incongruous pair: the professor’s cloistered look contrasting sharply with Ramsgate’s flamboyance and assertive gestures. The academic had the earnest air of one conducting a graduate seminar, while the travel pundit chatted freely and volubly, the gravelly voice punctuated with staccato barks of mirth. Cedric was smiling politely – but inwardly wondering why on earth the man was wearing that ridiculous headgear.
‘You know, that child is such a cow,’ Alicia muttered as soon as Rosy had joined them, ‘vain and stupid, and calculating!’
Rosy was startled by her tone: quietly venomous. ‘You sound a bit fed up,’ she said lightly. ‘What’s she done now?’
‘Bought a red bikini,’ Kestrel announced.
Rosy stared at him open-mouthed. Was the man mad? Did the pair harbour a joint hatred of socialism? Or give secret support to Prudes Anonymous?
‘Er, so what?’ she stammered, ‘I’ve got a yellow one with pink—’
‘She has bought a red bikini because,’ Alicia interrupted with gritted teeth, ‘that fool Bartho has altered the beach scene. Instead of having me languishing by the breakwater to seduce the unsuspecting sea captain as he plods his weary way across the dunes, Bartho and that idiot scriptwriter have decided to use her instead … I ask you, scrapped the professional and substituted that cheap little stick insect! The stupid bikini is a present to herself for being so favoured: a sort of self-conferred trophy.’ As if to stress the grossness of the insult, she tugged angrily at her ample bodice; and in so doing bumped against Kestrel’s glass. Its contents splashed liberally down her cleavage.
‘Christ, that’s all I need!’ she hissed.
‘Oh dear,’ Rosy exclaimed, dabbing ineffectually at the other’s dress, ‘I hope that’s not too chilly. Sha
ll I get you another glass?’
‘Several would be helpful – and oh, while you’re at it you could spike that bloody girl’s drink. It might keep her quiet.’
Rosy couldn’t help grinning, while Alicia glared at Robert Kestrel; and indeed at anyone else who happened to catch her eye.
Elsewhere in the room things were proceeding more equably. Lady Fawcett had just encountered Mickey Standish, and they were engaged in an amiable exchange of pleasantries – something that emboldened the former to enquire if Vincent Ramsgate was always in the habit of wearing a hat indoors.
‘No, fortunately,’ Standish replied. ‘Only if he is hosting a party or celebrating a new book – which, I suppose, is about fifty per cent of the time. A friend of his, Ida Carshalton, gave it to him a few years ago as a joke, since then it’s become a sort of fetish.’ He shrugged. ‘Absurd, really, but I suppose we all have our little quirks.’
‘Oh, indeed,’ Angela agreed earnestly. ‘I remember my dear late husband used to—’ She broke off in surprise. ‘Oh, you don’t mean Ida Carshalton, the MP’s wife, do you? We used to know them moderately well at some point – but you know how it is, one loses touch so easily, especially in London. Mind you, he is always most assiduous in dispatching his emissaries to come canvassing on my doorstep when the need arises. These politicians, they never miss a trick do they!’
Standish agreed that they didn’t, adding wryly that perhaps it was just as well as it fed the public’s taste for lurid gossip. ‘And after all, without that, think how dull the newspapers would be.’
‘Yes, perhaps you are right,’ she mused, ‘one hadn’t thought of it like that. But, oh dear, in that case just think what the readers of the Manchester Guardian must be missing!’ She chuckled, and rather to her own surprise, accepted his proffered cigarette.
Shot in Southwold Page 5