by Dean James
Letty flushed with pleasure, and Neville beamed with pride. Neville was scrumptious in his clerical kit, as ever the handsome poster boy for the Anglican Church.
“How’s the latest book going, Simon?” Neville asked. “Didn’t you tell me you were working on a study of medieval queenship?”
“Yes, Neville, that’s right, and it’s going well, if slowly.” Only Giles among the locals knew that I wrote popular fiction, and I was working on a scholarly book, in between stints on romances and mysteries. At the rate I was going, the scholarly book wouldn’t be finished for another two years, at least.
Before Neville could launch into a series of tedious questions—he fancied himself as quite the amateur historian—I changed the subject with ruthless speed. “Isn’t it exciting to think of our having such a celebrity in our midst for the next week?”
“Oh, yes, Simon,” Letty replied with great enthusiasm. “I shouldn’t confess to indulging in something so frivolous, but I do so enjoy watching Mr. Harwood’s program, ‘Tres Zeke.’ Such a clever name, don’t you think? I’ve taken some of his ideas and adapted them for use in doing some redecorating at the vicarage. And with, though I say it myself, quite lovely results.”
As Neville beamed approvingly upon his wife, I kept a polite smile plastered on my face. I had seen Letty’s “adaptations,” and they were no more successful than Letty’s attempts to dress herself with some sense of style or taste.
“Of course,” Letty continued a bit wistfully, “if one had the budget most of Mr. Harwood’s clients seem to possess, it would all go so much more easily, I’m sure.”
“No doubt,” I said. Most of the persons who appeared on Harwood’s program were already well-heeled, or they couldn’t have afforded the hideously extravagant paints and fabrics that Harwood never failed to choose for his work. The program footed half the cost of the redecorating, but it was still an expensive proposition for those lucky enough to be chosen for the program. “I wonder when the man of the hour will deign to appear?”
Before either Neville or Letty could reply to the sarcasm-laden question, a hush fell over the room. We turned to see what had occasioned the quiet.
A few steps inside the doorway, accompanied by four people, there stood a man of average height, going bald at the front, dressed in a purple suit with a pink shirt. Ignoring the people awaiting him, he surveyed the room, his lip curling upward in disgust. “What a dump.”
CHAPTER TWO
Both Bette Davis and Elizabeth Taylor had delivered the line with more conviction, and certainly more panache, but Zeke Harwood managed to inject at least as much venom into the famous words as the two great actresses.
Like any queen, he knew how to make an entrance. One could have heard the proverbial pin drop for a long moment after he uttered those words.
Then someone giggled, and I recognized the sound. Jessamy Cholmondley-Pease, wife of the councillor and walking fashion faux pas, shut up abruptly when she realized all eyes had turned to her. Her face, raccoon-like with its injudicious use of kohl and eye shadow, suffused with red as she tried to shrink behind her husband. Thanks to the ridiculously high spiked heels she wore, her bottle-blond head stuck up over her husband’s silvery dome, making them look like some bizarre totem pole.
“Which of you unfortunates is the lady of the manor?” Zeke Harwood’s voice, nasal and high-pitched, reclaimed our attention.
Even Lady Prunella Blitherington, rarely at a loss for words, was struck dumb by this further bit of colossal rudeness. Having seen the man’s program on a few occasions, I knew he had all the tact of a runaway bulldozer, but I had figured it was just his “Tres Zeke” persona. Evidently not.
Giles recovered first. Stepping forward, he went to greet the guest of honor. “How do you do, Mr. Harwood? I am Sir Giles Blitherington. May I present my mother, Lady Prunella Blitherington?” Lady Prunella stumbled forward, her face displaying her confusion. Should she snub this worm, or ignore his behavior?
“How do you do, Lady Prudence?” Harwood purred at her. “I see you are in desperate need of my services. How fortunate that you wrote in to my little program.” He patted Lady Prunella’s hand. “Yes, I see we’ll have quite a lot of work to do here.”
Lady Prunella said not a word. Her mouth hung open, but nothing issued forth.
Turning back to Giles, Harwood leered up into his face. “I see that at least one thing here at the manor needs no redecorating. How scrumptious.”
Stone-faced, Giles stared back at him. Jessamy Cholmondley-Pease tittered again, but a quick elbow in the stomach from her husband shut her up.
“Perhaps, Mr. Harwood,” Giles said in a tone that would have frozen boiling water, “you would like to introduce your companions.”
Harwood blinked. Giles had not acted according to pattern, and he appeared confused. He clamped his mouth shut, raised a hand, and gestured with two fingers.
One of Harwood’s companions, a tall, lanky man in his fifties, stepped forward.
“How do you do, Sir Giles?” His tone was polite and unctuous. “If I might, I’ll introduce myself. I am Piers Limpley, Mr. Harwood’s personal assistant.” He towered over his employer, who had stepped a few paces back and stood glowering at Giles and the rest of us.
“A pleasure, Mr. Limpley,” Giles said, his tone thawing noticeably as he shook hands.
“Sir Giles, Lady Prunella, if I might introduce the rest of Mr. Harwood’s staff.” He indicated the young woman standing next to him. “Dittany Harwood, Mr. Harwood’s sister, and the designer and webmaster of his Web site.”
The thirtyish Dittany had a strong resemblance to her brother, the same mulish chin and short hair already going gray, but her posture spoke volumes. She was doing her best to fade into the background, trying not to be noticed. She managed to mumble a greeting to us, then retreated behind Piers Limpley.
“And this is Moira Rhys-Morgan, Mr. Harwood’s housekeeper.” The stately redhead offered a polite nod in our direction. Like Dittany Harwood, she was wearing a sensible dark business suit. The gaze she directed toward her employer held affection mingled with exasperation. Interesting.
Limpley had saved the best for last. He gestured toward a stunningly handsome man in his late thirties. I had been trying not to stare at him, although I had noticed that Giles was not suffering from any shyness in doing so. “This is Cliff Weatherstone, the producer of Mr. Harwood’s program.”
“How do you do?” A voice like warm honey oozed into our ears, and I would have sworn that I heard Lady Prunella gasp before she simpered and took his proffered hand.
After Lady Prunella released him, with obvious reluctance, Weatherstone extended his hand to Giles. Giles, too, seemed to linger over the handshake. Was it my imagination, or was Weatherstone giving Giles a discreet cruise?
Zeke Harwood had been watching the two handsome younger men with eyes narrowed. He stepped forward and laid a possessive hand on Weatherstone’s arm. “Cliffie darling, you mustn’t monopolize our handsome host.” Weatherstone’s face flushed in annoyance, and he did his best to shrug off Harwood’s hand without seeming to do so. Giles fixed Harwood with a most unfriendly look, then pointedly turned away from him.
“Might I introduce you to our friends?” Giles said, motioning me to come forward. “Dr. Simon Kirby-Jones, the eminent American historian recently come to Snupperton Mumsley.” I nodded in the general direction of the Harwood posse. Cliff Weatherstone offered me a warm smile while the rest blinked or nodded.
“Our vicar, Neville Butler-Melville and his lady wife, Letty.” More nods and blinks, on both sides.
“Our esteemed councillor”—was there the merest touch of irony in Giles’s voice?—“Desmond Cholmondley- Pease and his wife, Jessamy.”
Jessamy, unlike the rest of us, tottered forward on her high heels in order to grasp Harwood’s hand. Ridiculous shoes to wear for such a gathering, I reflected. Pretty ridiculous to wear for any purpose, as far as I was concerned, but in my limited acquaintance,
Jessamy Cholmondley-Pease never dressed appropriately for anything. Unless it were for a prostitutes’ convention. Her makeup always looked like she had troweled it on, and she probably had every variation of garment ever made from faux-leopard print material. It was her signature fabric, or so I had heard her airily informing someone in the post office just last week.
“Oh, Mr. Harwood, I watch ‘Tres Zeke’ all the time. It’s ever so clever, how you work wonders with everyone’s houses. I’ve watched your program so much I feel that I know you, or that we’ve even met before.” She laughed. “I only wish we could have you at our home to work one of your miracles.” She threw a spiteful glance at Lady Prunella. “But I guess we’re not as posh as some I could name.”
Harwood suffered her to hold his hand for a moment, then slowly pulled it away. “A very interesting name, Jessamy.” He tittered. “Madam, if I were you, I’d be more concerned about taking legal action against my couturier than worrying about redecorating my house.” Now, our Jessamy might be more than a few bricks short of a full load, but even she couldn’t mistake that insult for what it was. Her screech of rage startled us all, even though I could feel the hatred emanating from her in a sudden burst. She moved in Harwood’s direction, but her husband, the long-suffering Desmond, was quicker. He has had many years of practice, I presume, in keeping rein over dear Jessamy’s temper. He had her away from Harwood and into a corner of the room before most of us realized what almost happened.
Harwood turned with a smirk to Giles, but that smirk faded quickly at the look of distaste and contempt Giles failed to mask.
With a petulant toss of his head, Harwood turned back to his assistant Piers Limpley. “I simply must rest now, Piers. This has been a frightfully long day, and I must have time to let my inspiration build for the task that awaits us. I’d like to be taken to my rooms now.”
“Yes, of course, Zeke,” Limpley said, his tone void of any inflection. “Sir Giles, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Certainly, Mr. Limpley,” Giles said. “If you and Mr. Harwood and the rest would follow me, I shall show you to your rooms. Thompson, the butler, will see to your luggage.” He strode forward, with Harwood and the others trailing behind him. “I presume you were able to find suitable accommodation for your crew in the village, Mr. Weatherstone?”
Weatherstone’s assurances floated back to us as we watched them disappear through the door.
“A most unpleasant man,” Neville Butler-Melville observed, shaking his head. “And a great disappointment, I fear, my dear Letty.”
Letty did appear crestfallen, but she responded gamely to her husband’s concern. “I expect he is very tired, Neville dear. None of us appear at our best when we are tired, do we?”
There was the slightest hint of reproach in her voice, as Letty very properly, at least in her view, turned the other cheek.
The guests began moving forward to bid farewell to their hostess. After all, there seemed little point in remaining. I waited until everyone else had taken leave of Lady Prunella before moving forward to grasp her hand in mine.
“My dear Lady Prunella,” I said, “how unfortunate that someone of your breeding should be the victim of such an outrageously vulgar and common display.” I oozed sympathy, and Lady Prunella responded with a trembling smile.
“Thank you, Dr. Kirby-Jones. At least some among us do have manners.” Her lips narrowed into a thin line. “I fear I shall come to regret ever inviting that... that toad into my home.”
I patted her hand, then released it. “Perhaps dear Letty was correct, and Mr. Harwood will be much improved after a night’s rest.”
Lady Prunella emitted a most unladylike snort. “Chance would be a fine thing!”
“I wouldn’t lay odds against you.”
“I shall have to rely on Giles to deal with that man,” Lady Prunella said, her voice softening. “The dear boy has demonstrated the most astonishing maturity in recent months.” Her eyes caught mine briefly, then danced away. “A most delightful change.”
For the moment, that was the closest she would come to saying that I had actually been a positive influence in her son’s life. To my own surprise, I felt a spurt of burgeoning respect for her.
“Yes, he is growing up,” I said, smiling.
“Still, I cannot expect Giles to shoulder all the burden of dealing with that horrible man.” She shuddered. “However will we get through the next week?”
“I believe, dear lady, that it is now out of your hands, so to speak. You must resign yourself to playing hostess, with the knowledge that he and his retainers will be gone in a few days. After all, how bad can it be?”
Lady Prunella took some comfort from my words, but I should have known better than to tempt fate in such fashion.
CHAPTER THREE
Just before lunchtime the next day Giles regaled me with tidbits from the further adventures of Zeke Harwood at Blitherington Hall. I had been writing feverishly since about three that morning, and when Giles arrived at nine, I was far too deep into the misadventures of Marianna and Charles in the wilds of Kent to want to be diverted by anything mundane. But along about noon the pace slowed, and I limped to a halt, mentally worn out by what I had accomplished in my marathon writing bout. By that time I was more than ready to relax with a cup of tea and some gossip.
“The worst moment came, Simon, when Zeke insisted upon taking the master bedroom for himself. I thought Mummy would pop off from an apoplexy right then and there.”
“It’s not a particularly comfortable room,” I said. “Why your mother insists upon keeping it for herself when one of the other suites of rooms would be far nicer, I don’t know.”
“Because it’s the master bedroom, silly man,” Giles said in mock-exasperation. “Mummy still fancies herself as the master of Blitherington Hall, naturally. And most of the time, I let her have her way, because it gives her more than enough to do and keeps her out of my way. I don’t want that room. You’re right. It’s uncomfortable, and it would cost a tidy little packet, which I haven’t got, to make it into something decent.”
I laughed. “Maybe you should have Zeke and his crew redo that room, instead of the drawing room.”
Giles snorted. “It’s going to be bad enough, watching him wreak havoc downstairs. Whatever possessed Mummy to write into that program? I suppose she wanted something new and different.”
I arched one eyebrow and stared at him for a moment. “Not unlike you with a certain gorgeous television producer last night, if my eyes weren’t deceiving me. Tell me, how is your friend Cliff this morning?”
Giles’s mouth dropped open, but he made a quick recovery. “I don’t bloody believe it, Simon. You’re actually jealous. You, jealous of Cliff Weatherstone.” He crowed with laughter.
Were I still human, no doubt my face would have reddened with annoyance. “Nonsense, Giles, nothing could be further from the truth. I was merely noting what I had observed, but obviously I cannot stop you from misinterpreting my comments.”
Eyes rolling, Giles said, “Oh, excuse me, Simon, excuse me.”
Deciding to ignore his juvenile behavior, I reverted to the initial subject of our conversation. “What was the outcome, then, of Harwood’s request for the master bedroom?”
“What? Oh, you might know, Mummy gave in. She wasn’t about to indulge in vulgar fishwife antics and tell the bloody man there was no way in hell she was going to let him have the room. So Mummy stiffened her upper lip and let Harwood have his way. After all, it’s only for a few days, and we have more than enough rooms to accommodate them all.”
I decided I might as well be blunt about one thing. “Who’s paying for all this redecorating? Your mother is such a pinch-penny, I can’t believe she’s willing to pay for it all.”
Giles grinned. “Oh, no flies on Mummy, rest assured. Before she wrote to the program, suggesting Blitherington Hall for a remake, she ascertained that the program pays for half of everything, and she has the opportunity to say no to a
nything too extravagant. If we hate what Harwood does, however, we bear the cost of changing it. But that’s the worst of it. It’s going to cost a mint to feed them all for several days, not to mention having to hire a few extra staff to clean the rooms, and so on. But Harwood’s toady, Piers Limpley, assured me that they would cover the costs of that as well.”
“What are you doing about extra staff, then?” Lady Prunella was legendary for running off staff after only a brief stint of work at Blitherington Hall.
“The one advantage of having these television people in the house is that suddenly we have quite a few villagers willing to work for a few days at the Hall. Women who practically laughed in Mummy’s face in days gone by are now quite desperate to ‘help out’ there.” He snickered. “Jessamy Cholmondley-Pease even volunteered. She seems rather fascinated by our celebrity and his minions, I must say.”
“Hoping she’ll be discovered, no doubt, along with all the others. Or perhaps they all just want to get Harwood’s autograph, is that it?” The disgust was evident in my voice.
“Something like that,” Giles said. “But we won’t lack for staff the next few days, and at bargain rates, no less.”
“You’re a sharp operator, Giles,” I said, not meaning it entirely as a compliment.
“Perhaps, Simon,” Giles responded, his tone the tiniest bit huffy, “but if you’d care to trade places with me for a few days, you’d be more than welcome.”
“No, thank you,” I said. “I quite see your point.” I smiled in conciliatory fashion.
“If it weren’t for the fact that I need to keep an eye on Zeke and his minions, I might beg you to let me stay here with you until this bloody television program is over and done with.”
“I’m sure Cliff Weatherstone would be most disappointed,” I said.
“No doubt,” Giles said, his eyes narrowing. “He at least is forthright about what he wants.”
Before I could muster a response to that the doorbell rang, followed by the sound of a door opening.