by Allan Frost
Seymour Krapps was next to arrive. He, too, admired the peaceful rustic setting and dropped a massive hint that he could make use of it for other private functions if Mr and Mrs Eason had no objection. Always on the lookout for tasteful locations for open air pop concerts; makes getting planning permission easier.
Yes, the lane was wide enough to take the lorry with its incorporated crane to lift the Royal Flushes into position and yes, he’d test everything out personally on the morning of the event to make sure there were no problems. He’d return sometime on the Monday after the party to clear everything away.
Finally, Tim rang the musicians to sort out their accommodation.
‘Not to worry, sir, all we need is a stream and a few trees,’ he’d been told. ‘We always use our own tents; saves us money and keeps our prices low, Mr Eason. And we take our rubbish away with us, so have no qualms on that score.’
It was, in Tim’s opinion, all coming together very nicely. Sarah was more than happy with Bert’s catering arrangements and he felt sure they could rely on Hives and Crimp not to let them down.
This was one event which should go well, especially since Augustus and Elizabeth would be kept well away from Hilda. She’d done enough suffering recently.
Third time lucky!
The morning of Sunday 27th August duly arrived. Tim, unused to acting as host, flitted around Priorton Hall like a caged bird.
Sarah, with years of catering at the Priorton Arms behind her, tried to carry on as normal. Everything was under control. Except her husband.
‘Tim, why don’t you get on with some work?’
‘Can’t concentrate.’
‘Just calm down. Have another mug of tea.’
‘I wonder if the marquees have arrived yet. Or the toilets.’
‘Sadie and Seymour said they’d call when everything’s set up,’ she sighed.
‘But what’ll happen if they don’t turn up?’
‘Darling, why don’t you get in the car and drive down to the Priory? Take a look for yourself. Take your camera. Take your time. Just . . . take yourself away for an hour or two. And take your mobile phone in case I need to contact you.’
He did as he was told. He could see what she meant. He really was in a state.
Tim parked his car near the ruins and strolled a few metres towards a wisp of smoke near the woods. A small fire smouldered between two tents and a battered orange Volkswagen Dormobile van which had undoubtedly seen better days since it first took to the roads in the early 1970s. There was no one to be seen. He coughed discreetly. No answer. He coughed again a little louder.
‘May I help you?’
Tim turned to see a man, adjusting a rather impressive codpiece, emerge from behind a tree; he must be one of the players, judging from the medieval costume.
‘I’m Tim Eason,’ said Tim, thinking twice about shaking hands.
‘Morning, Mr Eason. I’m Ted Bowman. Got here last night: your instructions were very clear.’
‘Good,’ said Tim. ‘Got everything you need? Is the site OK?’
‘Very nice, I must say. Peaceful, apart from late last night when someone decided it would be a good time to practice.’
‘All set for tonight?’
‘Should be. The others are still cocooned in their sleeping bags but I’ll soon put a stop to that!’ he said, beating the sides of both tents with a flat hand.
‘Wakey, wakey! Come and meet the lord of the manor!’
Tim smiled; that sounded quite good. He grinned as three dishevelled, bleary eyed heads emerged from the two tents.
‘Meet Ned and Fred,’ said Ted, nodding to the left. ‘Midnight minstrels, judging from last night’s performance.’
‘We thought that was you,’ yawned Ned.
‘Don’t fib!’ He pointed to the other tent. ‘And this is Jed; he’s my little brother. Come on, you miserable lot!’
One by one, they staggered out and shook Tim’s hand. Their breath stank of beer.
‘Just the four of you?’ asked Tim.
‘Yeah,’ drawled Fred. ‘Our misuses only come to bigger events, like English Heritage weekends. Spending our money while we earn it.’
‘You OK for food and drink?’
‘Self contained, that’s us,’ nodded Jed, emitting a long burp. Definitely stale beer.
Someone broke wind. Ted seemed a trifle embarrassed.
‘Early morning,’ he explained. ‘Gets us all like that after sleeping on hard ground.’
A loud tooting interrupted the moment of awkward silence. Seymour Krapps to the rescue!
‘Oooh! Toilets!’ exclaimed Ned. ‘Now that’s a luxury!’
‘They’ll take some time to set up,’ observed Ted, rummaging inside his tent. He handed a latrine spade to Jed. ‘Get goin’ before you stink the place out,’ he said meaningfully. ‘Your need’s greater than mine.’
Seymour jumped down from the cab of his lorry and strode over. ‘Mr Eason? Your wife said you’d be here. This is my son Ashley, come to give me a hand. Where do you want the Royals?’
Relieved to leave the medieval musicians to their own devices, Tim showed him the WC markings on the grass near an archway into the ruins.
‘Good spot,’ said Seymour. ‘That where the marquees are going? Fine. I’ll make sure the doors face towards them. Yes, very nice spot. Well, leave it to us, Mr Eason. I’ll give you a call when we’re about to leave.’
Tim was on the brink of opening his car door when a pickup truck arrived, laden with enormous tarpaulin bags. A covered van followed close behind.
Tim went over to meet Sadie and her furniture friend while two of Sadie’s men began unloading the lorry.
Yes, Sarah had been right. Everything was going smoothly.
He returned to the Hall feeling in a much better frame of mind.
While Tim drove the short distance home, Bert Nibbull paid a quick visit to Blister Grange to pick up a few illicit bottles of Port from Julio Hives while Euphemia Crimp carried a tray of fresh eggs and a dead chicken to Bert’s van. Sir Cedric and Lady Cynthia had gone to morning service at Priorton parish church and wouldn’t return for another hour at least.
‘Everything set for tonight?’ asked Bert.
‘Indeed so,’ replied Julio.
‘Remember to let me have any spare bottles. Full and unopened, mind.’
‘Of course, Bertram,’ said Julio, making a point of rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.
‘I’ll pay you tonight. Promise.’
Julio nodded. He could trust Bert. Bert had too much of a good thing going to let him down.
Bert watched Euphemia return to the kitchen before he spoke again.
‘Is Euphemia feeling well?’ he asked confidentially.
‘Fine. Why do you ask?’
‘She seems quite steady on her feet. Didn’t tip any eggs off the tray.’
‘She’s sobered up,’ said Julio.
‘Seen the light? Never!’
‘I can assure you—’
‘Bit of a bummer for you.’
‘On the contrary. It’s much better now that she knows what she’s doing. A bottle lasts us two nights, not an hour. Yes, matters have improved considerably.’
Bert wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hear any more. ‘See you this evening. How are you getting there? Need a lift?’
‘No, thank you. Euphemia’s taking her car.’
‘I didn’t know she could drive.’
‘1958 Morris Minor. Hasn’t been out of the stable since 1973 but it seems to go satisfactorily. We’ve been practicing in the drive for over a month now. Remarkable woman, Euphemia. When her faculties are functioning properly, that is.’
‘Well, make sure she doesn’t do anything silly. Dangerous things, cars. Especially with a woman behind the wheel. More likely to have an accident than us men. Have their minds on other things, like cooking and cleaning, you know. Must dash: see you later!’
Noon came and went. Tim paced the kitchen f
loor biting his nails. The musicians had arrived safely. Sadie had telephoned to say the marquees and tables had been put into place. But Seymour was having problems with the petrol generator.
Both Royal Flushes were in position and the cisterns full of water but the generator refused to start. Consequently, the door lights didn’t work, neither did the water heaters nor, most importantly, the pump for removing soiled toilet water.
Seymour had rung to apologise for the delay: he was on his way back to Wellingley to pick up a replacement machine but Mr Eason shouldn’t worry; it would all be ready in time.
Mick sat in a shed at the bottom of his garden, whistling to himself and thinking happy thoughts about Bambi while polishing his shotgun.
The landlord at the Just One More had telephoned moments earlier saying he needed a couple of wood pigeons for tomorrow night’s menu. Laying net traps was out of the question; Mick couldn’t guarantee catching any birds in such a short time, so he’d have to resort to more positive, albeit drastic, measures. The shotgun was effective but could damage the goods.
Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to pay a visit to Corpses Copse until early evening. Mick’s estranged wife and children were coming for lunch; they always came on the last Sunday in the month.
Sir Cedric, when he gave his ruling to solve the Sturbs’s matrimonial, custodial and access problems a few months earlier, had insisted Di Sturbs should make an effort to ensure their two children benefited from family get-togethers once a month. Mick had shown his gratitude by leaving fresh game on the judge’s doorstep.
So, urgent though the pigeon order was, Mick would have to wait until his family returned home before he could go hunting.
Constable Blossom had no idea that, less than a hundred metres away from his front door, his arch-enemy was preparing to commit murder. Bud was more concerned with spending the afternoon cycling around his countryside beat and hanging up his uniform afterwards.
His tour of duty today was supposed to take place between ten in the morning and six in the evening. Eight hours was what he was paid for, so eight hours would be served.
But what he did after six o’clock was entirely up to him. Shakram-hurling, like the body-building exercises of his youth, had become more than an obsession. It was almost a religious way of life and, regardless of inevitable accidents, his technique had improved dramatically over the last few weeks.
He could hit the Watch Oak consistently six or seven times out of ten; of those, at least two throws would stick in the gnarled bark of the trunk.
Recently, he had begun to master the advanced art of achieving similar results when riding his rusty steed, just like Xena.
Roll on six o’clock!
XIII
Tim became more and more agitated as the afternoon wore on. There was still no word from Seymour and, what was worse, he couldn’t get hold of him on the mobile phone. Augustus and Elizabeth hovered discreetly out of sight; they’d never seen Tim like this before.
Sarah found it impossible to calm him down.
‘Seymour would have rung if he wasn’t able to sort things out,’ she insisted. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, we can take buckets and fill them from the stream.’
‘That won’t be very convenient,’ he retorted. ‘Stomping around in the dark, splashing ourselves with dirty water.’
‘That reminds me, where are the torches?’
‘In a box downstairs. With fresh batteries, before you ask. I picked them up at Cynthia’s launch.’
‘Surely you didn’t pinch them?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What did you buy that night?’ They hadn’t had a chance to make use of their purchases yet and Cynthia had promised to bring black replacements for Sarah’s pink garments that evening. Let’s hope she doesn’t forget.
‘None of your business . . . yet,’ Tim grinned. He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost five o’clock!’
His phone rang.
‘Yes? Good. Fine . . . Great!’ He put the phone back in his pocket.
‘That was Seymour. He’s on his way back from Wellingley.’
‘And?’
‘His son put diesel in the generator instead of petrol and they’ve had to strip the engine down. It’s OK now.’
‘Just trot along and calm down. Go and have a chat with the Wiltons. They’ve been floating out of your way for too long today! Oh, and you’d better remind them to disappear completely when Hilda arrives. We don’t want to frighten her away!’
‘Will do.’
Two Ackney Cabs drew up outside Priorton Hall not long afterwards. Four passengers stood admiring the mansion and surrounding moat for a few moments before crossing the narrow stone bridge to the front door.
‘Come in, come in,’ greeted Sarah. ‘How lovely to see you again!’
Lady Cynthia slipped a brown carrier bag into Sarah’s hand after making sure Tim was nowhere to be seen.
‘Hope they do the trick,’ she whispered mischievously.
‘I’m sure they will!’
She showed them into the drawing room.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ she asked.
‘Whisky, no ice,’ replied Cedric promptly. ‘Sherry for Cynthia. Sweet.’
‘Just a fruit juice for me,’ said Hilda. ‘George has made me promise to moderate my intake. I’ll have something stronger with the meal.’
‘And a whisky with ice for me, please,’ said George. ‘Where’s Tim?’
‘Oh, he’s been in such a state all day,’ replied Sarah, pouring glasses at the drinks cabinet. ‘Nerves. He’s never acted the host before.’
Tim appeared at the doorway. He seemed flustered.
‘Calm down, my boy. Nothing to worry about. We’re all friends here! Cheers!’ Cedric downed the whisky in one gulp.
‘Another one, Sir Cedric?’ asked Sarah.
‘Not for the moment, thank you. May have another later.’
‘Er, would you like a quick tour of the house?’ said Tim. ‘If you’d like to go that way into the library, we’ll follow.’ He shot a meaningful glance at Sarah.
‘Have you seen Augustus or Elizabeth?’ he whispered.
‘Perhaps they’re following instructions and avoiding Hilda.’
‘That’ll be it,’ he agreed with a sigh of relief. ‘I’d forgotten. Well, good for them!’
They heard a knock at the door.
Bert Nibbull arrived in an enormous van. What a day! First Blister Grange, then the Priorton Arms which was full of women whose inhibitions seemed to have deserted them; he’d have given anything to be a fly on the wall. The rest of the day had been spent at his shop supervising food preparation and cooking. Bert was not the panicking sort. He’d been in the business long enough to know what he was doing and how to meet deadlines.
Sarah was ready for him.
‘Beer for the musicians is in those cool bags,’ she said. ‘Drinks and torches downstairs in boxes.’
‘Have you remembered the Port?’ asked Bert. ‘It’s just that I’ve got a few bottles going cheap. Good stuff, mind!’
‘Ok, then. Cutlery, glasses?’
‘Sarah, everything’s under control. Nothing will go wrong, trust me.’
‘God, I’m beginning to sound like Tim,’ she said. ‘He’s been in a fluster all day. And Hives and Crimp?’
‘They arrived at the ruins a few minutes ago under their own steam. Given them a full briefing.’
‘Own steam?’
‘Apparently Miss Crimp has a car. If you see an old green Morris Minor, keep well out of the way! Right, I’ll load up. Time waits for no man!’
He made several trips to the van. Sarah’s white wine and mixers were stored securely in the onboard refrigerator while other odds and ends went into fitted cupboards.
A moment or two after he thought he’d picked up the last box from downstairs, someone (he assumed Tim whom he’d never met) reminded him to ‘take the big one under the large mirror. Put it under one of the tables
in the corner of the dining marquee’. Sarah had been right; his voice did sound rather nervous.
The visitors were impressed with every nook and cranny of Priorton Hall, especially the secret chapel below ground, cunningly concealed to avoid detection by Protestant fanatics who knew Augustus Wilton’s father harboured Roman Catholic convictions.
‘Our fly-by tenants are doing very well,’ whispered Sarah to her husband at one point. ‘Must be flitting from room to room keeping out of Hilda’s way.’
The final port of call was the knot garden. Mick had done a wonderful job. All the plants had established themselves very well and, although it would take several years to reach maturity, there was enough colour and growth to give an idea of what it would eventually look like.
‘You’ve done very well,’ praised Lady Cynthia. ‘I’ve never been here before. Everything looks so beautiful.’
‘Do you intend opening to the public?’ asked Hilda, seeing an opportunity to impress friends at the WI.
‘We opened the Park a few times this year, just to see how things went,’ answered Sarah. ‘We’ve had a few ideas but can’t make our minds up about the house and knot garden. Not sure we want strangers snooping and trooping around our home.’
‘Let alone all the red tape,’ added Tim. ‘And catering.’
‘That’s partly why we’ve never opened Blister Grange,’ agreed Sir Cedric. ‘Private life’s your own and you don’t want anyone pinching the antiques. The courts are busy enough as it is. Mind you, I had considered leaving the Grange to the National Trust when I’m gone but I don’t approve of the way they handle things.’
‘You could always get students to show folk around in small parties,’ suggested George. ‘Hilda and I quite like visiting places like this. Perhaps you should think of it as a service to the public. Shame to keep it hidden.’