A Matter of Loyalty

by Anselm Audley

  The professionals were clustered in one knot, perhaps more curious than usual, but acting as if they’d seen it all before. The local cast members were wandering around excitedly, peering out of windows and into corners. Vivian was briskly impersonal, laying out the limits of the stage.

  The Pearsons were setting up folding chairs under the direction of Mrs Partridge, who wasn’t having anyone else take charge in her house. Sonia had drifted in earlier, cigarette in hand, casting a jaundiced eye over the proceedings.

  ‘Amateur dramatics, how worthy.’

  Emerson was having none of it. ‘Weaned on a pickle, you were. It’s not amateur, for a start, not with Vivian Witt directing and Sir Desmond Winthrop playing Becket. I shall be coming down to see it, and I shan’t be the only one.’

  Sonia didn’t have much time for Vivian either. ‘Hardy Amies, ugh. I wonder if they’re keeping her on retainer.’

  ‘She wishes it were builders, in to strip the place bare and turn it into a hotel,’ said Freya.

  ‘I do,’ said Sonia, ‘and I shan’t pretend otherwise. I hope you’ve locked the doors. Look at all those hangers-on. Some of them will have light fingers, believe me.’

  ‘I could put one of those pikes across the passage,’ Freya said. The staircase hall was thick with displays of mediaeval weapons, relics of various arsenals the Fitzwarins had built up whenever the Crown wasn’t looking.

  ‘Just put that bear in the way,’ said Emerson. ‘The one lurking at the foot of the stairs. It has an accusing look, if you ask me.’

  ‘I should have an accusing look if I’d been shot by an English earl on a tourist jaunt,’ said Freya. The bear in question had been unlucky enough to come within the sights of her grandfather’s gun during his tenure in Canada. Since her grandfather had been notoriously short-sighted and too vain to wear spectacles, family tradition suggested it had simply died of old age at a convenient moment.

  ‘Hideous thing,’ said Sonia. ‘Like something out of the Dark Ages.’

  ‘So it’ll deter burglars,’ said Emerson. ‘Let them wonder what else they have to contend with. Are there oubliettes in the Castle?’

  ‘There’s a room at the bottom of the Old Tower,’ said Freya, ‘but I don’t believe it was anything so gothic. Just a storeroom.’

  ‘I shall keep myself out of the way until they’re all gone,’ said Sonia. ‘At least Aunt P isn’t about, off at that christening with Hugo and Valerie, or she’d feel the need to haul me over for tea.’

  Freya knew very well this was a dig at her, and was determined not to let her cousin get under her skin. Sonia was being more than usually waspish at the unwonted interruptions in her life.

  Despite which, she showed no sign of actually getting rid of Emerson. He lingered after she’d left, quite content to watch the bustle.

  ‘Did Saul know anything about Jenkins?’ Freya asked. Hugo had brought her up to date on Jenkins before he left.

  ‘I did. He gave me one or two names to follow up, men he knows were associated with the late Lord Selchester. He doesn’t know Jenkins, but recognised him from my description. Turns out Saul saw him down on the river path last weekend. Took him for a reporter, that was the day they were all nosing around.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Not enough to convince Jarrett or MacLeod, but perhaps a glimmer of hope, a thread to follow.

  Vivian clapped her hands. The room fell silent.

  ‘Thank you. We’re late starting, so let’s not have any further delay. We’ll start with the entrance of the Second Tempter. Father Leo Hawksworth has kindly agreed to read in for Becket today. I’m reliably informed he was a pillar of OUDS during his time at Oxford.’

  ‘He’d make a good Becket,’ Emerson whispered, seeing Leo tall and commanding in clerical black.

  They settled down to watch.

  Scene 7

  Bicycles safely chained to a fence post at the base of Pagan Hill, Georgia, Polly and Daisy were making their way up its slope.

  ‘The path goes this side of the fence,’ Polly insisted. ‘Look, you can see the line on the map.’

  The map belonged to the Castle, tracked down by Mrs Partridge with dire warnings as to the consequences if it was muddied, drenched or torn.

  ‘Maybe it does,’ said Georgia, ‘but there’s a path on this side of the fence, too, and the view’s much better. Look, you can see all the way to the Atomic.’

  ‘The best view is at the top,’ Daisy pointed out. ‘And if you two won’t stop squabbling, we won’t have time to get there.’

  ‘It doesn’t look far,’ said Polly.

  Half an hour later, she was thoroughly disabused of that notion. ‘How many summits does this hill have?’ she said, planting herself on a tree stump. ‘Every time it looks as if we’re there, it just goes on.’

  ‘Hah! No stamina, you Americans.’

  ‘I’ve been to Yosemite,’ said Polly. ‘Half Dome could squash Pagan Hill and not even notice.’

  ‘Does Half Dome have a pagan barrow on top?’ Georgia said. ‘Revenant kings who ride with the Wild Hunt? I think not.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything about the Wild Hunt,’ said Daisy, who was rather envious of their night-time excursion with Árpád. She’d quite like to stay at the Castle more – home was nice, but not nearly so interesting. ‘Only lights.’

  ‘Of course it was the Wild Hunt,’ said Georgia. ‘What else would it be?’

  ‘Martians,’ said Polly, who after initial resistance had succumbed to the lure of Georgia’s science fiction, and was now catching up with Árpád.

  Polly was chivvied off her perch, and they all pressed on.

  ‘Look, we’re nearly there,’ Daisy said as they reached a fence and a belt of woodland. ‘This is on the map, just before the top. It can’t be more than a couple of hundred yards now.’

  ‘How do we get over the fence?’ said Polly, practically.

  ‘There’s supposed to be a stile. Look, there it is.’

  Georgia and Daisy gathered that stiles were an unknown quantity to Polly. She found it distinctly wobbly, but persevered. Georgia leapt off the top of the fence, landing in a shower of dry leaves.

  ‘Where does that go?’ she said, pointing to a path leading off into thick undergrowth.

  Daisy consulted the map. ‘It’s a right of way, but it doesn’t go anywhere.’

  ‘What’s the point of a path which doesn’t go anywhere?’ Polly said. ‘Only in England would there be anything so ridiculous.’

  ‘Maybe it goes into the hill,’ Georgia said. ‘Maybe there’s another entrance to the barrow, and we’ll find a network of tunnels under the hill. With skeletons.’

  ‘I think if there were skeletons, someone would have found them already,’ said Daisy, but Georgia was already charging off.

  Much to Georgia’s disappointment, the path petered out in a briar patch after a mere fifty yards.

  ‘I think foxes and things must use it,’ said Daisy. ‘Look, it goes on into the undergrowth, but it’s much too small for us.’

  Georgia was looking for a way around. ‘Hullo, what’s this?’

  She picked up something tortoiseshell, with gold bands.

  ‘Fountain pen,’ said Daisy. ‘Give it to me. Pa likes fountain pens.’

  Georgia handed it over.

  Daisy surveyed it with a knowledgeable eye. ‘No name on it. But it’s an Osmiroid. Expensive. Must have fallen out of someone’s pocket while they were looking for a way through. They’ll be cross.’

  ‘We can hand it in at the police station,’ said Polly. ‘Come on, let’s go back, the sun’s low and we don’t want to be late. Think how long it took us to get up here.’

  A few moments later they were standing on top of the barrow, a stiff wind blowing their hair back.

  ‘You can see half the county from here,’ said Georgia.

  ‘Chilly place to be buried, though,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Pagan kings didn’t care about that. They’re probably off in Valhalla, feast
ing with the Valkyries. Maybe they were burned in a funeral pyre, here where everyone could see.’

  ‘There were midsummer fires up here until the sixteenth century,’ said Polly. ‘They used to light them on every hilltop roundabouts, but this was the chief one. It wasn’t called Pagan Hill until after the Reformation, when the Protestants decided they didn’t like bonfires any more and put a stop to it.’

  ‘That’s because bonfires ought to be in November, when it’s dark. They were just more sensible.’

  ‘Will you two stop that?’ Daisy said, glaring at them both. ‘It’s bad enough you arguing about it over homework. You only do it to wind the adults up anyway. Now, let’s have a look in the barrow while there’s still light.’

  Scene 8

  The three of them came freewheeling down the path through the Castle gardens just as Hugo’s car pulled up outside the front door. The inner bailey was still packed with cars, the rehearsal just coming to a close. The sun had set, but the western sky was still a clear pale blue with a faint dusting of bright stars.

  ‘Who’s that with him?’ Daisy asked, quite innocently.

  Georgia scowled. ‘That’s Valerie.’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Polly. ‘Too late, they’ve seen us now.’

  Hugo had indeed seen them, although Valerie was still looking around her. ‘So this is Selchester Castle,’ she said. ‘I must say, I hadn’t imagined anything quite so grimly impressive. More something Victorian with turrets.’

  ‘There are turrets aplenty around the back,’ said Hugo. ‘The Earl lives in a Victorian wing.’

  ‘So you’re here, in this louring pile. I must say, it’s not where I’d imagine you living.’

  ‘It’s not nearly so grim inside. Come on, let me show you.’ He took her arm. It had been a good lunch, his odd mood of the christening temporarily forgotten. Valerie had been in fine form, sparkling with anecdotes, charming all and sundry. Hugo had renewed his acquaintance with Arthur, in considerably more depth than it had existed before. He was pleasant company, a man quite at peace with himself and his limitations, consequently very easy to be around. Indeed, for a while Hugo had managed to put Stainer and his offer quite out of mind.

  She smiled. ‘I should like that.’

  The girls raced along the edge of the inner bailey, coming to a halt in as near a screech of brakes as bicycles would allow, although Georgia was now lagging distinctly behind.

  ‘How was your expedition?’ Hugo asked. ‘No, don’t tell me now, put your bikes away before there are cars everywhere. The rehearsal’s just finishing.’

  It was indeed. The first few cast members, with places to be or no disposition to linger, were making their way across the terrace to their cars. A big black car came through the gatehouse, on its way to pick someone up.

  ‘I’d have liked to see Father Leo as Becket,’ said Polly.

  ‘He’ll be doing it again tomorrow,’ said Hugo.

  He ushered Valerie into the kitchen, the door closing behind them.

  ‘Where’s Georgia?’ Daisy asked, as she put her foot on the pedal.

  Polly looked round. ‘She was just behind us. Probably gone the long way around, so she doesn’t have to see Valerie.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Valerie?’

  ‘Everything, to hear Georgia say it. I’m sure she can’t be that bad.’

  ‘You haven’t met Lucy Cheriton’s stepmother,’ said Daisy. ‘I thought Lucy was laying it on too thick, until I met her.’

  ‘Valerie wouldn’t be Georgia’s stepmother.’

  ‘Step-guardian. Bad enough. Come on, let’s put these away before we end up stuck in a traffic jam.’

  Scene 9

  Gus, sensible of his duties as host, gathered them all in for tea in the library. Freya was glad of the extra bodies. Emerson’s warmth and Árpád’s impolite questions were more than enough to smooth over the awkwardness of Valerie’s presence and Georgia’s pointed absence. Hugo hadn’t talked about the offer he’d received, and Valerie hadn’t mentioned it.

  The rehearsal was over, the chandeliers dark, the ballroom closed up. Father Leo had been a splendid Becket, Freya rather thought. Perhaps they could revive the old tradition of theatricals at the Castle. They’d still been going on well into the 1880s, just as in Jane Austen’s day. Somewhere up in the attics, boxes and boxes of costumes and props still gathered dust. Perhaps the moths had got them, perhaps not.

  Hugo was trying not to think too hard about Georgia, but no one could conceal that every other current resident of the Castle was there, and his sister wasn’t. He took advantage of the arrival of a fresh pot of tea to ask Mrs Partridge to call her down. A few moments later, the door opened, but it was Mrs Partridge again.

  ‘She isn’t in her room, Mr Hugo, nor in your sitting room, nor anywhere else I’ve poked my head in.’

  Hugo caught Freya’s eye and drew them both out into the hallway.

  ‘Did you or Sonia have hiding places, if you didn’t want to be found?’ he asked.

  ‘I imagine Sonia did,’ said Freya. ‘There’d be plenty. I never needed them. My uncle liked his peace and quiet, and he was always very meticulous about ensuring his guests were extended the same courtesy if they wanted it. Unless he had business with them, of course.’

  They both knew what sort of business that would be.

  ‘It’s too bad of her,’ said Hugo testily. ‘All she had to do was make polite conversation for half an hour. You’d think I was threatening to pack her off to a nunnery.’

  ‘Polly and Daisy say she took herself off as soon as she saw you at the door. Have you seen her bike, Mrs Partridge? Perhaps she put it inside and came up the back stairs.’

  ‘If she’d left it in a corridor, I’d have given her a good talking-to, but there’s no sign of it, and Ben hasn’t seen it neither.’

  ‘Could Ben make a tour with a torch, see whether he can find her? Or at least the bike – we’ll be able to tell where she came in. He’ll know all the nooks and crannies.’

  ‘That he can,’ said Mrs Partridge. ‘He’s fond of Miss Georgia. We all are.’

  She took herself off towards Ben’s domain.

  ‘I’ll have a look around inside,’ Freya said. ‘She might come out for me.’

  ‘She’d better,’ Hugo said. ‘It’s one thing not to like Valerie, quite another to behave like this. She was brought up to have good manners. Aunt Charlotte was very careful about that, after Mother died.’

  ‘She’s also thirteen years old,’ Freya said, ‘and longing for some stability in her life – a stability conspicuously lacking in the last year or so. When did your aunt announce her engagement?’ Aunt Charlotte’s decision to marry an American and move across the Atlantic had prompted a great deal of turmoil in Georgia’s life, and the transfer of her guardianship to her brother.

  ‘Last December,’ Hugo said.

  ‘She’s had thirteen months of uncertainty, and just when everything looked settled, it may all be about to turn upside down. It’s a wonder she’s borne everything as well as she has. You’ve led a very rootless life yourself, by choice. Georgia may be made of the same stuff, but she shouldn’t have to find out until she’s older.’

  Hugo nodded, feeling distinctly out of his depth once again. He’d meant to ask his uncle for advice, but the opportunity had yet to present itself, with the question of Saul’s guilt hanging over everything. He’d make time tomorrow, Leo wasn’t due back in Oxford until Monday.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘At least let me know when you find her, if you can’t coax her down here.’

  Hugo returned to the library, no doubt to watch Árpád interrogating Sonia and Valerie. Freya was a little sad to miss that – it wasn’t often Sonia came across someone as tactless as she was, and Valerie’s face was a picture – but she was worried about Georgia.

  She took a torch from the cupboard by the door and set off into the upper reaches of the Castle, one room at a time. Ben and Mrs Partridge did their best to keep everyt
hing in order, but not all the rooms had working bulbs, and there were plenty of dark corners.

  It was quiet, dark, chill. The corridors were familiar but empty, some still with bare stone, the rooms musty and long deserted. She walked quietly on slippered feet, calling out Georgia’s name every so often, listening in each empty room for the sound of breathing. She rather thought Georgia wouldn’t have gone in search of darkness, but of warmth and familiarity.

  She checked in her own tower just in case, but it was as she had left it, shrouded in gloom aside from the desk light, pages of scribbled notes all over the table. She was almost ready to go: she could feel a new version of the story looming in her mind, much stronger and more dramatic. Monday morning, she would start on Monday morning. An imprisoned Puritan major-general, a Royalist peer compromised by Thurloe’s little book of secrets, a web of intrigue with its roots in the grim years of the Commonwealth, it was all there.

  She crossed back along the gallery of Grace Hall.

  ‘Miss Freya?’ It was Ben’s voice.

  She leaned over the balustrade. He’d come in through the door at the back, holding his own big torch, looking rather puzzled. ‘Yes? Any sign of the bicycle?’

  ‘None that I can see,’ he said. ‘I’ve looked in the shed, and the Old Guardroom, where she sometimes stows it when she’s come back for something, but there’s no sign of it.’

  ‘The gardens?’ Freya said. ‘They were on their way from Pagan Hill. They must have come down through the upper gate and the Italian garden.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be searching in the dark,’ Ben said. ‘You could pass two feet from it and not see it, if it’s behind a hedge. Besides, Miss Polly said Georgia was right behind them when they came down on to the circle. Doesn’t stand to reason she’d take herself back up again, it’s a steep way. Shouldn’t like to come down it myself, like to break my neck, but girls will be girls. You don’t think she might have taken herself off elsewhere, do you?’

  Freya was alarmed. Georgia hiding in the Castle was one thing, Georgia cycling off into the dark was quite another. It was something very close to running away, and on a bitterly cold winter’s night. Even hardy Ben was bundled up in a heavy coat.