by Allan Frost
‘That’s entirely my fault,’ he confessed. ‘If I hadn’t introduced you to strong drink, you wouldn’t have needed to smuggle bottles out of the cellar.’
‘You know?’
‘Of course I know, I even where you’ve hidden things. We’ve been together for so long, how could I not know? I don’t miss much, Euphemia.’
‘But I was so careful to hide it in other bottles.’
‘The trouble is, you don’t know whether the bottles contain drink or what they say on the label. That’s why your hair’s green today.’
‘I made myself a vow this morning,’ she offered, after wondering whether or not she should mention it. ‘No more booze.’
‘Yes, you told me.’ What would happen to their trips to the cellar if she gave up altogether? He could hardly share a pineapple juice; it would be unbearably frustrating if the promises of this morning were scuppered before they had time to flourish. Their relationship, restrained yet somehow simmering for decades, must be allowed to develop. He was a patient man; he’d had to be, and he wasn’t going to give up now! He’d think of something.
‘But I wasn’t sober then,’ she said. ‘I am now. I don’t ever want to be like I was.’
‘No, Euphemia.’
‘Will you help me, Julio?
‘Of course I will.’
‘Then let’s make another cup of tea and you can help me sort out all the bottles.’
Having finished lunch, Lady Cynthia’s group returned to the lounge and sat drinking coffees in one of the alcove; it was the very one where Sarah had first sat alone with Tim. Hilda had a large mug and was feeling almost normal. So normal, in fact, that her hawkish attention to the drift of conversation would be remembered verbatim for months.
George took out a pipe from a jacket pocket. ‘Anyone mind if I smoke?’ he asked. There were no objections, although Hilda sniffed rather obviously to register her disdain.
‘You can smoulder away to your heart’s content,’ smiled Sarah.
Smoulder. Cedric’s thoughts flashed to Fatima’s newspaper advert. Non smoker but likes to smoulder. He felt a slight churn in his stomach. Mustn’t dwell on things you can’t change.
‘Do you have any children?’ he asked Hilda, quite innocently forgetting what George had said earlier about them being a disappointment to her.
Hilda shuffled uncomfortably in her seat.
‘Shall I get you a cushion?’ said Sarah, noticing.
‘No thank you, Sarah, I’m quite happy.’
Good, thought Cynthia. Thankless task trying to find one large enough.
‘Boy and a girl,’ offered George. ‘Well, adults now, of course. In their twenties.’
‘What do they do?’ asked Tim.
Hilda rearranged herself again but said nothing.
‘Roger’s a solicitor,’ said George with more than a hint of disappointment.
‘Oh?’ said Cedric. ‘Not bent, is he? Come across no end of bent solicitors.’
‘No, he’s not bent,’ replied George. ‘At least, I shouldn’t think so.’
Sarah could see the Chief Inspector was reluctant to talk about Roger but wanted to know why.
‘What sort of solicitor is he?’ she asked. ‘I mean, is he a criminal lawyer or one that does wills and house conveyances?’
‘He works for Amnesty International, I’m afraid,’ George answered quietly.
‘The human rights people?’ said Tim. ‘Civil liberties?’
George nodded glumly. Change the subject . . . please!
‘Surely that’s a good thing.’
‘Not if you’re a policeman and your son spends most of his time bringing cases against the force.’
‘I think that’s enough about Roger,’ said Hilda firmly.
‘What about your daughter?’ asked Cynthia.
Hilda shook her head sadly.
‘Harriet is a dancer,’ said George.
‘Which ballet corps? I might have seen her.’
George doubted it very much. She didn’t perform in the sort of places where Cynthia and Cedric were likely to frequent.
‘Not that sort of dancer.’
‘What, then? Theatre? Showbiz?’
‘Lap. In Soho.’
‘Oh.’
Cedric broke the ensuing silence.
‘Poles apart, in a manner of speaking. She any good?’
Hilda had had enough.
‘May we change the subject?’ she said miserably.
‘I wonder if Miss Crimp has recovered yet,’ offered Sarah. ‘It was such a shame to see all that food go to waste.’
‘I think she and Hives are getting a bit past it,’ confided Cynthia. ‘Truth is, they’re part of the furniture. We don’t really need them now but don’t know what to do for the best.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Cedric. ‘Don’t really need them? Who’ll do the cleaning and cooking? Who’ll lay my clothes out on the bed?’
‘Cedric, my dear. They’re getting old.’
‘They’re younger than us.’
‘Only just. We can’t expect them to go on forever.’
‘If they’d wanted to retire, they’d have mentioned it.’
‘No they wouldn’t. And it wouldn’t be the end of the world if they did. We can always get someone else.’
‘Cost too damned much.’
‘Cedric, we can afford it! Now, not another word. If they want to leave, so be it. I’ll make sure you don’t suffer.’
‘I think they’re in love,’ said Sarah without thinking.
‘What? In love? Hives and Crimp? Never!’ Cedric was shocked. ‘They can’t be. They’re bloody servants!’
‘Didn’t you see the way he looked at her after the accident? They’re in love, I’m sure of it.’
‘At their age?’ Cedric was flabbergasted. ‘Goings on under our roof?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time, by all accounts,’ observed Cynthia, giving him a meaningful look. ‘Nor the last. Being servants has nothing to do with it. They’re just like everyone else.’
Sarah couldn’t resist a smile. Now she knew why Cedric’s eyes sometimes twinkled mischievously. And Cynthia’s, for that matter. The home fires, as Cynthia had said earlier, were still burning.
‘Is that why Miss Crimp’s hair’s green? Does Hives have a thing for green hair?’ asked Sarah nosily.
‘No, that’ll be the Crème de Menthe,’ replied Cynthia in a matter-of-fact way. ‘It was orange yesterday. Seems she’s developed a taste for peppermint essence for some reason. I think she’s a bit of a drinker.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Cedric.
‘Cedric, will you stop shouting ‘what’? If you didn’t have your nose buried in a newspaper all the time and bothered to keep your eyes open, you’d be able to see more. Call yourself a judge! How can you be a good judge if you can’t see beyond the end of your nose?’
Hilda had perked up considerably. This was more like it. Her head turned from side to side, like spectators do at Wimbledon, watching intently as the conversation bounced from one side of the court to the other.
Cedric felt disgruntled. Surely he’d have realised if there was anything worth noticing.
‘Why do you think she drinks?’
‘No one normal drinks peppermint essence straight from the bottle, believe me! She gets through it like water. Her hands shake all the time and she can’t string two words together without slurring!’
‘Can’t say I’ve noticed.’
‘That exactly the point, Cedric dear. You’ve had your head in the clouds for far too long.’
‘Had other things on my mind,’ he said grumpily.
‘I know you have, dear, I know you have . . .’
The radar in Hilda’s ears circled out of control. Go on! Go on! Her anticipation collapsed in a heap at Cynthia’s next words.
‘Some party this turned out to be,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Been a bit of a calamity, hasn’t it?’
‘No, not at all,’ said Sarah rea
ssuringly. ‘It’s been different, certainly, but not boring. I have to say, I wasn’t too sure how things would turn out, considering half of us have never met before, but I think it’s gone OK.’
If this is OK, I dread to think what a real disaster would be like, thought Tim.
‘Yes, it’s been very interesting,’ said Hilda, carefully filing the experience in a mental cabinet. ‘We must do it again sometime.’ She looked pointedly at Sarah, her hopes raised for an invite to Priorton Hall. Unfortunately, Sarah was looking the other way.
‘Cedric needs to get out more,’ said Cynthia. ‘So do I, for that matter. We don’t do much together, apart from civic functions, and they don’t count. Too many stuffed shirts and tiaras. This is much nicer. Just a few ordinary folk having a chat, even if the subjects are a little . . . colourful.’
Ordinary folk! Tim couldn’t believe his ears. Servants and pensioners obsessed by sex, and parents whose children are hell bent on embarrassing them.
‘We’re the same,’ said Sarah. ‘Tim and I don’t go out much either. How about if you all come to Priorton Hall for a meal?’
Yes! Yes! Hilda was delighted. George noticed her elation and, against his better judgement, nodded in agreement. As it had turned out, Hilda hadn’t disgraced herself any more than one or two others.
‘Cedric and I would love to,’ said Cynthia.
‘That’s settled then. Tell you what, why don’t we make it sometime in August? The anniversary of us inheriting the Hall. As a sort of thank you to Sir Cedric.’
Tim wasn’t too sure but still said nothing.
Surely it couldn’t be as bad as today’s fiasco?
IX
Bud Blossom maintained his keep fit regime, cycling along the empty lanes around Hemlock every day to make sure potential criminals were deterred from breaking the law.
There were less than forty houses on his patch, most of which were located in or very close to Hemlock itself, but that did not mean his job was any the less important. In fact, he prided himself with that comforting thought. His must be the only area in the country where crime rates were nil.
Apart from Mick Sturbs.
He knew, just knew, Sturbs was a hardened poacher despite the facade of running a respectable garden centre. Why so many people from all walks of life condoned and supported him was beyond Bud’s limited comprehension.
The Chief Constable had once accused Bud of harbouring a long-standing grudge against Sturbs, enhanced by envy of his successful, albeit small, business.
Rubbish! The man was an outlaw of the first order who took advantage of the clearly defined limits of Bud’s jurisdiction. He was sure such an imposition on official movement was not legally enforceable. But Bud, regardless of his innumerable faults, did his utmost to follow orders to the letter.
The fact that Sturbs was content to move his animal and bird traps and snares around Corpses Copse in full view of Bud was a case in point. It left the over-keen policeman with a bitter taste in his mouth.
He must have a word with the Easons and obtain permission to remove these lethal and illegal contraptions off their land. That would put a stop to Sturbs’s heinous crimes against local fauna.
What he really wanted, above all else, was to catch the poacher red-handed. It would be difficult (years of failed prosecutions had taught him that, if nothing else). New stop-and-search legislation hadn’t helped so far; Mick never transported the artefacts of illicit trade in his vehicle, so there was no hope of catching him when going to or returning from the Copse. Nor would the possession of game concealed in his poacher’s pockets lead to a successful conviction; he, with never an exception, always had a plausible explanation ratified by impeccable witness statements. No, Bud had to stop Sturbs while actually perpetrating a crime.
He had thought about buying a video camera to gather incontrovertible evidence but couldn’t afford one at the moment; he was still paying monthly sums as compensation to the bloke who’d walked in front of the car and broken his leg. He was sure he’d done it on purpose.
PC Blossom’s fingers had taken almost two weeks to fully recover from their shredding at the Watch Oak. He was now ready to resume practice with his homemade shakram.
He’d spent the intervening time examining throwing methods portrayed in his vast collection of fantasy video films. Xena seemed to have the best technique by far; she must be good because she never suffered from cuts to her hands. And perhaps her shrill attack shriek did something to enhance accuracy. Vain attempts at emulating the shriek had resulted in neighbours hammering on the front door, thinking he was being murdered (nice to know they’re concerned) and the purchase of a bottle of gargling mouthwash. He wouldn’t try that again.
Mick Sturbs arrived at the field between Corpses Copse and the Watch Oak. He panicked when he couldn’t see Bambi in the dim evening light. Someone had left the gate open again; she could have strayed into the lane. But no, she was tethered to the stake, wasn’t she?
Blossom was again performing some kind of weird ritual with a shiny disk near the Watch Oak. Mick sat dejectedly behind a hedge by the gate, impatiently waiting for the constable to finish and remove himself from the scene.
At last he saw a movement in the far corner of the field. It was Bambi. He frowned; the length of twine couldn’t possibly extend that far from the stake!
It must have snapped.
With mounting anxiety, he watched helplessly as she nibbled and strolled her way towards the centre of the field. He considered the wisdom of shutting the gate in case she made a run for it. No; the creak might alert Blossom and he’d be bound to see the deer.
Little by little, Bambi proceeded up the field. Mick felt sweat oozing out of the pores of his hands. Beads trickled down his brow. He’d have to do something! But what?
Blossom gave a loud yell. Why the hell had he forgotten the leather gloves!
Oh, no!, thought Mick. He’s seen Bambi!
He peered around the hedge.
Blossom appeared to be performing a frenzied dance which entailed wedging his right hand inside his left armpit while jumping up and down. Moments later, Mick watched as Blossom picked a plate awkwardly off the ground, tossed it into the basket and began pushing his bike along the Hemlock road.
As soon as he was out of sight, Mick shut the gate, registering that the lift-up lever seemed a trifle stiff and failed to slip into its keeper at all well. Have to mention it to Wesley Pope at Home Farm next time I see him, it’s his responsibility.
He called to Bambi once the gate was secure. The young deer bounced over the hummocks and nuzzled up to him. Those innocent doe-like eyes made Mick’s heart flutter.
‘There, there! I’ve brought you some carrots. You like carrots, don’t you?’
If the deer were a woman, he could easily fall in love with her. He really didn’t want to think about Bambi ending her days on dinner plates scattered across several hotels. If he could have his way, they’d be together forever.
He examined the twine while she munched away. Just as he thought. It had snapped. Mick led the deer back to a secluded spot at the far end of the field, scouring the intervening ground until he found the stake and the rest of the twine. He tied the two ends together and repositioned the stake.
A few days later, Sarah was pleased to see Gerry Bilt busily planting low box hedging in the knot garden. It was obvious he hadn’t a clue, apart from knowing the leafy bits went on top and the opposite end went into the ground.
Mick yelled himself hoarse, issuing frustrated instructions at regular intervals.
‘Not there, you pillock! They’re supposed to go in the garden, not on the path! Look! Here! See?’ It’s not that hard, is it?’
Gerry mumbled inaudible curses under his breath while Mick emptied climbing roses from their pots and planted them firmly at the foot of each post; they’d look very pretty once they’d grown over the arches.
Sarah joined them after several hours of back-breaking work. She handed them
mugs of well-deserved tea remembering it was ‘Three sugars in each, please ma’am’.
‘Coming on well, isn’t it?’ she said to Gerry.
‘S’pose so,’ he replied in a surly voice. ‘Can’t stand bloody plants, if you’ll pardon my French.’
‘Why not? They look lovely.’
‘Won’t last forever, will they? Give me a buildin’ any time.’
From what Sarah understood, the plants stood a better chance of surviving several seasons, which was longer than some of Gerry’s building work could expect.
Perhaps Mick was a better conversationalist.
‘What do you think, Mr Sturbs?’
‘It’ll look a real treat in a few weeks time, Mrs Eason. Should have everything planted by the end of the week. All we have to do then is water them reg’lar, twice a day when it’s warm, less if it rains. Mustn’t let the roots dry out else it’ll all be a waste of time.’
‘Will you be able to see to that? Mr Eason and I will be rather tied up for a while. May have to go away for a few days at a time over the next few weeks.’
Tied up.
That reminded him of Bambi. Should he ask if he could let her roam around the main Park? No, if they were going away, it would save him some money if the rent didn’t start until after they returned. And if they did go away, he’d be able to let her into the Park anyway without them knowing.
‘Not a problem,’ he replied after due consideration. ‘I’ll give Gerry very precise instructions. Don’t relish the thought of everythin’ bein’ washed down the stream. Might make the Park look very pretty but the garden’ll look as though a flood’s passed through. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. And seein’ as you’ve been a prompt payer, and it’ll only be Gerry, I’ll charge you at cost.’
‘Very generous of you, Mr Sturbs.’
She saw he was about to say something but seemed a little uncertain.
‘Was there anything else?’ she asked.
‘Well, I was wonderin’,’ he began. ‘I’ve, er, got a little sideline, you must’ve heard from your time at the Priorton Arms. Would you be interested in buying, er, fresh meat from time to time? It’s just that I can sometimes lay my hands on the occasional wood pigeon, rabbit and the like.’