by Allan Frost
Stepping into the musician’s marquee, which was little more than a garden gazebo, Tim switched on a newly-acquired digital voice recorder to record the music, placed it on a stool and returned to his seat at the dining table. The Medieval Minstrels struck their first resounding chord.
Tim sat back to take in the scene. All quite cosy, really. Minstrels sitting on the other side in their marquee with beer cans within easy reach and the food preparation area screened off on the other. He sincerely hoped Crimp, whose hair had returned to what he presumed to be its normal grey colour, wouldn’t do something crazy again.
This was a proud moment for him; his first dinner party in such wonderful surroundings.
Hives distributed the first round of drinks in his customary dignified and efficient manner. Everyone, even Hilda, seemed so relaxed. It was intriguing to see how they were now on good terms with one other, despite earlier hiccups. Furthermore, it was nice to know nothing would go wrong this time.
‘Did you hear about Persephone Chinn-Dribbling?’ asked Cynthia.
‘No,’ answered Hilda, shuffling uncomfortably in her seat.
‘She resigned her mayorship for ‘private reasons’. Well, I ask you: was there anything private about it?’
‘I’m afraid it’s not something I wish to discuss,’ said Hilda.
‘But you were wonderful, my dear! Everyone thinks you’re such a treasure. You did what most others would like to have done. Valuable service to the community!’
‘Do you really think so?’ Hilda was flattered.
Cynthia thought it best not to mention the incredible number of orders placed for the Dancer’s Dream outfit after the launch by over-endowed customers.
Hilda wondered if Persephone would also resign the presidency of the Women’s Institute, and who might replace her. President of the WI came with a few social advantages . . .
‘Didn’t know she was a lesbian,’ commented Cedric, interrupting her train of thought. ‘Goes to show, you never can tell. A chap could waste an awful lot of time before he found out. Not that I would, of course,’ he added sharply. ‘Prefer mine a lot thinner, like Cynthia here.’
‘Can’t beat a bit of meat on the bone, though,’ said George. Sarah smiled at this sudden burst of candidness. George was not renowned for saying much.
‘Just as well,’ said Hilda. ‘But don’t be too disappointed when I lose weight. I’m going on a diet. Not yet, though,’ she added hastily, not wishing to offend her hosts.
‘Don’t overdo it,’ warned George wickedly. ‘I enjoy a nibble beneath the sheets.’
‘George!’ his wife smiled coyly with feigned embarrassment.
‘This is frightening,’ thought Tim, trying to get the image of Hilda in night attire out of his mind.
‘I have to say I was surprised to see so many people there,’ said Sarah. ‘And I’d have expected to see something in the local newspaper, especially after Persephone’s performance.’
‘No worries on that score,’ smiled Cynthia. ‘The editor was there . . . without his wife, although he did have his secretary in tow. Pretty girl. About half his age. He had a vested interest in making sure none of his society photographers turned up.’
‘What I don’t understand is how Persephone got so drunk. She only had soft drinks, didn’t she, Hilda?’
Hilda hesitated. What could she say?
‘Oh, Tim. You’re so naive sometimes!’ said Sarah. ‘Hilda spiked her drinks and Persephone spiked yours, didn’t she?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Good for you, Hilda!’ exclaimed Cedric. ‘Can’t stand pompous nobodies only out to serve themselves!’
Hives slid over to Sarah and whispered in her ear.
‘Shall we begin serving, madam?’
‘Yes, I think we’re ready now. Thank you, Hives.’
‘Ma’am.’
He bowed and laid large linen napkins across the diners’ laps before disappearing into the adjacent marquee. He re-emerged almost immediately holding the awning open for Euphemia to make several journeys during which she carried heavily laden trays to a side table.
Hives then assisted his beloved, who simpered whenever she caught his eye, to deliver warm bread rolls and ladle soup. Euphemia retired to her quarters while Hives replenished depleted wine glasses.
Hilda thought the portions were well below what she had expected. However, each place setting comprised a large number of glistening cutlery and assorted glasses as well as a Maglite torch for each guest.
‘Is this what they mean by a light meal?’ she asked Sarah, lifting her torch. She could be quite witty at times.
Her comment caught Cedric completely by surprise. He spluttered soup all over his napkin and burst into a paroxysm of uncontrolled mirth.
‘Well, really, Cedric! Manners, please!’ admonished Cynthia.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he apologised, tears of laughter streaming down his face. ‘Caught me off guard. You’re quite a girl, Hilda. Wouldn’t have thought it, but you are!’
Was that a compliment? George didn’t help.
‘She has her moments, Sir Cedric, believe me.’
‘I know this goes quite against normal rules of etiquette,’ announced Cynthia. ‘But I feel we know ourselves well enough to ignore titles when in our own company. From now on, please drop the Sir and Lady. Cedric and Cynthia will do.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ said Cedric. He knew his place.
‘Oh, Cedric, don’t be such a stuffed shirt! These are our friends, not mere acquaintances. They’re nice, ordinary people. Like us.’
Tim would hardly have put either Cynthia or Cedric into the ‘ordinary’ category. ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind,’ he said, appreciating Cedric’s view. Tim had met a good number of Sirs and Ladies while conducting research. He knew they could be over-sensitive if correct forms of address were not followed.
‘Cynthia’s right,’ agreed Cedric after a split second’s consideration. ‘Never had such a good time in all my life, despite the disasters.’
Hilda blushed. Cedric noticed. ‘I wasn’t thinking of you so much as Crimp and Chinn-Dribbling,’ he reassured her. ‘And Sarah and Tim, for that matter. Remember the court case, Tim? When Augustus’s evidence was presented?’
Oh, God, please don’t mention ghosts! thought George.
Crimp and Hives interrupted Cedric’s train of thought when they came to clear the table. By the time they returned with the second course (melon balls with a nouveau-cuisine’s miserable dribble of Ruby Port), Hilda had forgotten what she was going to ask.
Despite the unrelenting warmth of this fine summer evening, not one of the diners over-indulged in the variety of quality wines accompanying one delicious course after another. Sarah and Bert certainly knew their stuff! And Crimp and Hives keeping discreetly out of sight enabled conversations to develop unhindered.
‘Crimp is quite an asset, isn’t she?’ commented Sarah. ‘And Hives, for that matter.’
‘You can’t imagine how much things have improved since . . . you know,’ said Cynthia. ‘But Hives has been dropping hints about retiring soon. Can’t say I blame them. They can’t go on forever.’
‘Thought they’d have the decency to see me out first,’ grumbled Cedric. ‘Don’t relish having to train some young upstarts to take their place.’
‘It’ll all work out,’ said Cynthia. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you’re not left to fend for yourself.’
‘I wish we had servants,’ said Hilda. ‘Cooking, washing and ironing gets so boring.’
‘Keeps you busy,’ said George. ‘What would you do otherwise?’
‘Not sure,’ Hilda replied. ‘Charity work, perhaps. Or get a job.’
‘Tim and I have a cleaner,’ said Sarah. ‘The mansion is so big. In fact, we seldom go into some of the rooms. We have thought about employing someone else but it really isn’t necessary just yet. We may if we decide to have visitors, or start a family.’
‘Tol
d you before, don’t leave it too late,’ said Cedric.
‘Talking of children,’ said George. ‘Good news. Our daughter’s decided to give up lap dancing. Got a boyfriend. Didn’t like her parading around half naked in front of strangers, so she’s taking a course in designing fashion garments for pets.’
‘With a trading name of Animal Fashions. And George is speaking to our son again,’ beamed Hilda. ‘He’s been transferred to the New York office, specialising in police and political corruption.’
‘Should be a job for life,’ smiled George. ‘At least he’ll leave British bobbies alone now.’
Whereas the atmosphere in the dining marquee was calm and relaxed, the food preparation area and Bert’s mobile kitchen were hives of frantic activity.
Crimp and Hives conducted their own business with calm efficiency but Bert, sweating profusely over a hot stove (the beads running the risk of playing havoc with carefully calculated measures of salt), was definitely feeling the worse for wear. The temperature in the galley, consistently hot even in cold weather, was becoming increasingly unbearable, so much so that he felt he owed it to himself to break the habit of a lifetime and partake of a glass or two of wine to quench his thirst. And he was desperate to relieve himself.
After over two hours of frenetic cooking, only the dessert course remained, followed by a variety of cheeses, biscuits (homemade, of course) and coffee.
Meanwhile, Fred, Jed, Ned and Ted strummed, blew, sucked, twiddled and struck weird-looking instruments to their hearts’ content, taking well-earned breaks every half hour or so to quaff beer, nibble Bert’s scrumptious sandwiches and other delicacies or check the plumbing in the King of Clubs.
Sarah was delighted. She hadn’t been too much of a fan of classical music before she met Tim and, she had to admit, it beat short, simple and formulaic pop music any day. It wasn’t until after Tim had booked the medieval players that she’d asked him to buy records of medieval and Tudor music so that she could get some idea of what it sounded like. She’d been pleasantly surprised by its uncluttered simplicity, unlike some orchestral works by heavyweight composers of later periods.
She wasn’t quite so sure about the authenticity of the Middle Age clothing worn by the players, though. She didn’t believe bright yellows, reds, blues and browns would have been commonplace at that time, but the jester’s hats with their tinkling bells added a touch of merriment to the occasion.
And as for those, what did Tim call them? Codpieces. Strange name. She’d always thought they were willy warmers. But what a size they were! Surely they must have a lot of padding!
Hilda and Cynthia had the same thought; they couldn’t resist taking casual peeks into the musicians’ marquee, fantasising . . . Their motives, naturally, ran along different lines. Whereas Hilda could only think of extreme pleasures, Cynthia was assessing design opportunities for the next additions to the Lady Cynthia Collection.
Cedric, George and even Tim found themselves feeling uncomfortably inadequate in the lower regions department and purposely averted their eyes, taking a special interest in the instruments and how they were played.
They weren’t the only ones taking an interest in what was going on around them. No one noticed thin wisps of ethereal mist drifting undecidedly out of and returning into the keyhole of the ancient chest beneath one of the side tables.
The Very Late Sir Augustus and Lady Elizabeth Wilton, having patiently kept an eye on proceedings for quite some time, decided the right moment to reveal themselves had arrived.
They were having the time of their deaths.
This was much better than watching telly!
If they were going to make an appearance, surely the right time couldn’t be far away . . .
XV
Bert Nibbull turned the gas off before rushing, bent double and knees pressed together, to the King of Clubs Royal Flush. He stood in front of the super-clean pan contemplating how long Noah had had to wait before his deluge subsided.
Finished, thank God!
Yes, it had been a good night and, judging from what Hives had said, the dinner party had gone off without a hitch. And he still had a few bottles of wine left over. He determined not to charge Sarah any more than he ought: she was, after all, an old friend who’d put plenty of business his way over the years.
He washed his hands under the hot tap. These modern portaloos had a lot going for them. Better even than the proper bathroom he had at home. But why did he feel someone was watching him? He looked over his shoulder. No, he couldn’t see anyone, but he definitely heard something. Must be the plumbing or the generator purring outside.
He returned to the catering van and, with help from Crimp and Hives, stacked dirty crockery and cutlery and as much of the leftovers as he could inside. Hives agreed to collect and return everything else, such as the glasses, coffee percolators and cups, tomorrow. As far as Bert was concerned, there was nothing left to do.
‘See you tomorrow, Julio. Been a good night, hasn’t it?’
Yes, indeed, Bertram. Er, before you go . . .’
‘Ah, almost forgot,’ he said, reaching into his apron pocket. Hives took the wad of notes and counted them with white-gloved fingers.
‘Thank you, Bertram. Most generous.’
‘You’ve both deserved it,’ said Bert, pressing a button to raise the platform lift at the back of the van. ‘Make sure Euphemia gets her share.’
‘I shall, rest assured. See you tomorrow, then. Goodbye.’
Bert fastened the rear doors, climbed into the cab and turned the van into the lane.
He’d have to get the dents in the bonnet and front bumper straightened out as soon as possible in case the police came asking questions about a missing deer. He’d also pay a quick visit to the Priorton Arms to see how the lesbian coming out party had gone and present his invoice. But first, the deer had to be collected from the field.
Bert drove very carefully over the cattle grid at the end of the gravel-surfaced lane and turned right into the road to Priorton. For some unknown reason, he felt distinctly unsettled while driving the short distance through Corpses Copse. Catching contorted, eerily-waving branches in the van’s headlights sent a shiver down his spine. Silly really. It wasn’t as if the woods were crawling with ghosts, was it? No, it must just be the name of the copse itself and the dimming light of dusk beneath the tree canopy that pushed his morbid imagination gear into overdrive.
The van almost hit the gate into the field before Bert realised it had been shut. Again, he felt a supernatural presence in the cool atmosphere as he stood in the glare of the headlamps. He opened the gate as far as it would go.
‘Pull yourself together, man!’ he muttered under his breath, once back in the safety of the cab. He drove slowly towards where he’d dragged the deer’s body earlier; the last thing he wanted was to add tyre marks to the animal’s injuries. Apart from which, it could damage the goods.
The mobile phone throbbed in his trouser pocket. He stopped the van and removed it. Who could it be at this time of night?
‘Hello, Bert Nibbull here.’
‘Hello, Bert. It’s the Just One More Tavern. Got a bit of a problem, wondered if you could help me out.’
‘Go on.’
‘Mick promised to let me have a brace of wood pigeon for the menu tomorrow night. Unfortunately, he’s let me down and I can’t get hold of him.’
Bert thought for a moment.
‘Does it have to be wood pigeon?’
‘No. Something fresh and out of the ordinary will do.’
‘How about venison?’
‘As long as it’s not tough.’
‘I was thinking more in terms of a young doe. Would that suit you?’
‘That’d be fine.’
‘How much do you need?’
‘Not a lot. Enough for at least two meals.’
‘Will delivery tomorrow lunchtime be OK?’
‘Fine.’
‘Consider it done. Oh, er, keep this bet
ween ourselves, eh?’
‘Discretion’s the word, Bert. Thanks a lot. Owe you one. Oh, let Mick know I’m very disappointed if you see him.’
‘Will do. See you tomorrow.’
Bert smiled. All he had to do now was find the dratted animal. He drove slowly around the field hoping no one, especially Wesley Pope, would notice. Ah! There it is!
He turned the van round until it was close to Bambi’s lifeless body and switched on the rear light. He got out of the cab and looked furtively around. No, no one in sight. Good. He could barely hear the music drifting from the ruins and lights were on at Home Farm; there was nothing to make him think he wasn’t alone.
‘I’m sure I didn’t drag the body this far,’ he said to himself. He gave it a gentle jab with his foot. Definitely dead. And the rope’s still round its neck.
‘Hello, what’s this? Blood?’ He bent to take a closer look. ‘It’s been shot!’
He stood up sharply and looked around the field again. He could see something moving on the edge of the light cast by the rear lamp of the van.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted, not too loud in case his voice carried too far. ‘Move into the light!’
‘And what might you be doin’ here at this time of night, Bert Nibbull?’
Oh, bugger! It’s Constable Blossom!
Bert was desperate. Caught in the act!
‘I always knew there was something shady about you. Is this how you get your meat? By stealing it? Well, the game’s up. Explain yourself out of this one. Bet you can’t!’
There was something, in Bert’s mind, not quite right about PC Blossom. But then, there never had been. Bert’s eyes caught a glimpse of something shiny lying on the ground between himself and the location of Blossom’s voice. It was a shotgun!
Desperate ends call for desperate measures. So many options bounced around Bert’s brain. Get the gun! It would be Blossom’s word against his, and Sir Cedric was bound to sympathise with Bert, if only because he never sided with this stupid, interfering copper!