Harry Bramall was striding down the long drive away from the house. His movements were firm, purposeful; there was no hesitation in his gait. He wasn’t coming back.
Amelia was standing beneath the columns of the portico watching him go.
Charlie strode to the top of the steps next to the column and looked down at the path.
Turn back Harry, you must say goodbye to her. Don’t deny her this one last look at your face…
Something dreadful had happened on these steps. He could feel it. The force was pushing him forwards off the top step, the pressure so strong, he almost unbalanced. He looked down at the gravel below. It was a long way to fall.
Astrid reached him as he stumbled. She grabbed hold of his arms, steadying him until the dizziness abated and he was able to face her. ‘What is it?’
‘I need to find out what happened to Harry,’ he said shaken. ‘I need to know where he went.’
Astrid maintained a firm grip. ‘We’ll do it together,’ she said.
Chapter Thirteen
Before they could talk further Megs came running towards them, brandishing a pair of lidded cappuccinos. ‘Astrid! Charlie! Can I say something?’
‘Out with it,’ said Astrid. ‘What’s everyone thinking?’
Megs came closer, panting slightly. ‘What your staff object to is the way you plunge in headfirst, so caught up in the excitement that you forget to consult them about your plans. That’s all it is.’
‘I’m taking you with me when I leave; you know that, don’t you?’
Megs smiled. ‘There’s many a true word spoken in jest. Personally, I love your impulsive dynamism, but that’s exactly what gets on Mrs Toon’s whatsits, tits.’
‘That’s an image I’d rather not dwell on, thank you.’
‘And I think bringing Charlie in -’ she lowered her voice, even though they were quite alone –‘was a stroke of genius.’
They were passing the side entrance gate. Head gardener Matthew emerged from the walled garden, and Megs was about to give him the two coffee salute when he sprang forwards and ran across the grass. ‘Miss Buchanan!’ he called. ‘Wait there!’
Astrid groaned. ‘Sorry, Megs, won’t be a tic.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Megs. ‘I’ve all the time in the world.’ Matthew, however, was less than impressed with her presence. ‘Isn’t there a display of tea towels you ought to be arranging? Don’t you have some kiddies watering cans to price up?’
‘All right,’ Charlie said, ‘there’s no need to be rude.’
Matthew rounded on him. ‘Very cosy,’ he said. ‘How privileged you must feel; how special!’
‘Oh, bog off!’ said Megs.
Charlie admired her restraint; far worse was on the tip of his tongue. But Matthew had no use for either of them; it was Astrid he wanted to tear a strip off.
‘Let’s clear something up, shall we?’ said Matthew. ‘Regarding the state of my team. Or lack of. That crap you gave me about there not being enough work to go around. Everyone knows the upkeep of this place is like painting the Forth Bridge. Neverending.’
‘Actually,’ said Charlie, ‘they use a new kind of paint these days, it doesn’t require half as much maintenance.’
Astrid hurried to make amends. ‘We’ve been through this, Matt. The money’s not available for another three months; I can’t keep any extra paid workers on. If anyone wants to continue to help out in the meantime as a volunteer, then they’re perfectly welcome to do so. As soon as the money comes through, we’ll talk again.’
Over Matthew’s shoulder, Charlie could see the gardeners working in the flower beds in the formal gardens stealthily leaving their tasks. In anticipation that something was about to kick off they were careful to maintain a discreet distance.
‘Oh I’m very well aware why there’s no money for me,’ said Matthew. ‘Very aware. You need money to pay him. That’s why I’m getting shafted.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Astrid. ‘Charlie isn’t getting a penny.’
‘Pull the other one,’ said Matthew. ‘You think I believe any of that shit?’
‘Steady on!’ said Charlie. ‘There’s no call to speak to Astrid like that -’
Matthew hadn’t finished. ‘People like you make me sick! Why don’t you get a real job you poncy twerp!’
‘We’ll go somewhere quieter, shall we?’ said Astrid, ‘Discuss this sensibly -’
Without warning Matthew sprang forwards and grabbed Charlie by the shirt front. The momentum took them both hurtling across the gravel and straight into the wall of the house.
Charlie’s ribs were compressed beneath the force of Matthew’s exposed forearms and his backbone was jarred up against the brickwork. Despite being a head and shoulders taller than his attacker he was completely immobilised. A second or so later he registered the fact that Matthew was holding the pointed tines of a garden fork alarmingly close to his jugular. This was ridiculous. Charlie could feel his head getting hot. His face, his neck, his scalp - alive with adrenalin. Matthew was poised to react. Charlie twisted his face as far away from the dangerous edge of the weapon as he could get. ‘Try it,’ he hissed. ‘Just try it.’
Matthew’s muscles flexed just a split second too late. With a bravado he never even knew existed, Charlie threw his elbows out, seized possession of the offensive weapon and in one swift follow-up movement tripped the gardener’s feet from under him. Matthew was laid sprawled on his back in the gravel with Charlie’s knee in his chest. ‘Make another move, and this fork will be six inches deep inside your cranium.’
‘Get the fuck off me!’ said Matthew.
Charlie clambered to his feet, scorching trails in the gravel. Within seconds, the gardener too was on his feet and pacing furiously about in front of the stable block. Thrusting his hand deep in his overall pocket, he retrieved something that resembled a small missile.
‘Oh my god, it’s the Mills bomb!’ cried Megs as Matthew slowly drew his arm back over his shoulder, took aim, and hurled it straight for the nearest window.
Instead of shattering the glass it bounced off the surface and skittered away into the gravel. Charlie dashed across to grab it and was about to lob it somewhere safe when he recognised its rather misshapen outline. He held the ‘device’ aloft. It was a rotting plant bulb. Mills bomb, he thought. If only.
Matthew, now weapon-less, reeled towards him, right fist raised.
Still clutching her coffees, Megs spun around, arms spread wide. ‘Don’t you dare!’
Charlie skimmed the bulb against the wall behind the flowerbed. ‘That’s enough. You’ll apologise to Megs and Astrid, right now.’
For a brief moment it looked as though Matthew might comply, but then his lip curled into a slow sneer. ‘Fuck off,’ he growled and ambled belligerently towards the tearoom.
Megs was trembling in fury. ‘Stupid man! What did he do that for? He looked like he was about to scalp you.’
Charlie handed the confiscated fork to Astrid. ‘Caught me off guard, that’s all. Crisis over. Calm prevails.’ But the crowd of onlookers were in no hurry to return to their work.
‘He wasn’t really going to slice your head off,’ said Astrid. ‘He’s stressed, that’s all.’
‘He’s positively whatsit,’ said Megs, ‘psychotic.’
Mrs Gibbs emerged from the tearoom and hastened over to see if her services were required. Not long after, Gareth too put in an appearance. ‘What was that noise? I heard something hit my window!’
‘It’s fine! It’s fine!’ Astrid said impatiently, shooing them all away. ‘I don’t know what everyone’s getting so worked up about!’ Reluctantly, her staff dispersed, fully intending to mull over the mini-drama for the rest of the morning. Only Megs remained at their side.
Charlie rested his hands on his hips and looked up at the sky. ‘Phew! I need to… I think I’ll… take a moment, catch my breath-’
‘You sure you’re all right?’ said Megs.
He ran his tongue o
ver his teeth. ‘I’m fine. Honestly. Thank you,’ he added.
‘Come on, let’s go and get a coffee. Fresh ones,’ she said, indicating the ones in her hands. ‘Vicky will be fine on her own for a bit.’
‘Can’t, Megs,’ said Astrid. ‘I’ve got a meeting with the Big Boss. He’ll be here in five.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, I hope it goes all right. Stick up for yourself, won’t you? If you want to know my opinion, I think you’re doing a fantastic job. Not like the previous manager, he was hopeless.’ Megs gave a satisfied wriggle and turned to face him. ‘Of course Astrid didn’t tell me about it in so many words, but you have this definite whatsit about you, other worldly air.’ Megs twirled away from them, still holding aloft her coffees. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘just a normal bloke, no-one special!’ And with that she danced her way back to the gift shop.
‘Right,’ said Astrid. ‘Much as I love being praised to the skies, I have to go and explain myself to the Big Boss.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said. ‘I insist.’
*
The meeting with the Big Boss went as well as could be expected.
At first he appeared quite sympathetic. ‘As you’re aware, Astrid, your colleague, Mary Toon, has been in touch with me.’
Astrid put him straight. ‘Went behind my back.’
‘Ought not to have done, I know,’ he said, ‘but she was concerned, Astrid.’ He was absently dunking a peppermint tea bag up and down inside a paper cup, all the while keeping his eyes on her. ‘Deemed the circumstances to be a bit beyond the norm, as twere.’ Dunk. ‘What with our curator’, dunk, ‘off on paternity leave,’ dunk, ‘she feels that she ought to have been given the responsibility, and not -’ he glanced at Charlie, ‘Mr Gilchrist, here.’ Dunk.
‘Don’t I know it?’ muttered Astrid.
The Big Boss glanced down at the small puddle of tea sloshed on Astrid’s desk. Having dispensed with the soggy teabag in the waste paper basket he examined the resultant dark infusion before blowing the steam off the top and giving it a quick slurp.
He had a bit of a gut, the Big Boss. Charlie could imagine him in The Addleston Arms wolfing down steak and ale pie, followed by apple crumble and custard, washed down with a pint of the local beer. A man of large appetites. What’s the betting he’d been privately educated at Eton, had a friend who was a former cabinet minister, a wife who wrote articles for House and Garden magazine, and two blonde floppy-haired kids who he took on holiday to Tuscany?
Work wise, the Big Boss favoured an idiosyncratic sage green suit, probably because he thought it made him appear more rural, more environmentally friendly; at home amongst the trees. They could have a Hunt the Boss competition. He’s hiding somewhere in the undergrowth, kids. First person to spot him wins a year’s free membership. Mrs Toon could be the beater…,
Astrid trod cautiously. She made it sound perfectly reasonable, non-threatening, convincing. All heritage properties should avail themselves of an expert in Retrocognition, and why not? ‘It’s a different approach, that’s all. If we’d drawn a blank, then fair enough. But we didn’t. We’re still searching, in fact. It’s an ongoing-’
The Big Boss raised his hand. ‘I’ll stop you there, Astrid. Numbers have been crunched, ventures discussed: a re-run of the highly successful poetry competition; a watercolour society event; a new venue for the pottery group, all well and good. And while I don’t particularly rate jazz bands per se, I can see why people flock to the summer evening picnic, so if you want to arrange another one of those it’s okay by me. But as for engaging in psychic mumbo jumbo, it’s not what we’re about. We’re custodians of history, we can’t engage in guess work! We certainly can’t use the organisation’s money to do it!’
‘I haven’t used any money,’ Astrid said calmly. ‘Not a penny.’
‘Not even for expenses?’
‘I asked Charlie here as a friend, that was all.’
The Big Boss thought this was worse. ‘I see, you took it upon yourself to engage the services of one of your boyfriends?’
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
For the second time that afternoon, Charlie felt his head get hot. ‘Astrid knows my brother,’ he interrupted. ‘That’s how we met.’
‘Forgive me, but it’s not good for our image,’ said the Big Boss. ‘We are a well-respected, dignified organization. Ghost hunting tours is one thing - a bit of fun, a bit of a laugh - but this psychic nonsense has got to stop. Stick to real research. You understand?’
‘With respect,’ said Astrid, ‘it really hasn’t done any harm. I think when Charlie explains what we’ve done you’ll see that it has produced far more information and detail than we’d have managed by ourselves.’
The Big Boss chuckled. ‘You really believe that, Astrid? You couldn’t have got your information using normal procedures? A bit of diligence wouldn’t have thrown up the same results? Wouldn’t have led you to the House of Commons database? I really wish you’d got in touch with Louis first.’
‘I did get in touch with Louis. As I think I explained over the phone, he gave me the go ahead -’
‘This isn’t the dark ages, you know,’ he went on. ‘You can’t hire the local soothsayer.’
Block it, Charlie commanded himself, fend him off like you’re in a taekwondo class. The Big Boss was a sceptic, as he had every right to be. No point saying anything and digging the hole any deeper. He briefly closed his eyes. If I could punch you in the face and get away with it...,
‘Unimpeachable, Astrid, that’s what we must be. Our reputation is at stake. Like I say, if you want to go down the spooky avenue,’ he waggled his fingers in the air, ‘then stick to events at Halloween, yes? Sometimes, Astrid, your exuberance lets you down.’
‘I thought that’s why you appointed me,’ she replied. ‘Youthful enthusiasm, you said.’
The Big Boss didn’t react well to being contradicted. ‘I’ll come and see you again before Easter,’ he said sternly.
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
The Big Boss took his leave. ‘Serious, reputable,’ he repeated. ‘Nothing dodgy, all right?’
‘Exuberance, dodgy history…,’ Astrid muttered once he’d gone. She embarked on some pointless displacement activity, tidying the desk, adjusting the chair height, rearranging pens in the pen pot. Wiping up the tea spills.
There was a knock at the office door.
‘Three guesses,’ said Astrid. ‘Mrs Toon swooping in like a carrion crow ready to tug at the bloodied entrails of my sad, degraded carcass!’ She swung around to face the door. ‘Come in!’
It wasn’t Mrs Toon, it was Megs. ‘Astrid? How did it go? Did you get a few things off your chest?’
Astrid chewed on her bottom lip. ‘It’s unprofessional to whinge.’
‘But you’re bored my love,’ Megs said. ‘Bored with this place, bored with the pettiness.’
‘I love working with you, you know that.’
‘Yes, but you’re young. You’ve other avenues to explore.’
Charlie noticed a little crease of worry in her forehead. ‘Megs? Is something bothering you?’
‘It’s Matthew,’ she said. ‘I’ve just seen him talking to the Big Boss.’
‘What about?’
‘You. Him. This morning. I think he’s made a complaint.’
‘He attacked me, not the other way around.’
‘Even so...,’ Megs looked dubious. ‘I thought it best to warn you.’
Chapter Fourteen
Normally a trip into town would be a straightforward journey. He lived in London; he travelled on the underground all the time, ignoring everyone as was the custom. But today his surroundings appeared fragile and glowing around the edges, like he was enclosed inside the shifting optical pattern of a kaleidoscope.
In the station, the tide of passengers ebbed and flowed. Was it his imagination, or was everyone paired off into a couple? On the escalator two people on the opposite side kissed each other, the disparit
y in their height accentuated by the moving staircase.
Weaving in and out, he made his way onto the first train. With no seats free he hung onto the handrail. Squeezed up against the man next to him, elbows and bags digging into his spine, there was nowhere to put his feet. All he could see was the reflection of the tops of heads in the window opposite. The man across the way thought he was eyeing him up.
He’d never felt vulnerability quite like it. A solitariness that he’d long since grown used to, mocked his stoic acceptance. You’re lonely, it said, you’ve never felt lonelier. Why not admit it?
Disgorged at Leicester Square, he swam against the tide until the crowd dispersed, and then crossed the road in front of St Martin In The Fields. He swung through the revolving doors of the National Portrait Gallery and started for the steps.
His very first trip to the gallery years before had been revelatory. It had been a school trip and after making hurried sketches of Henry VIII and Queen Elizabeth, the rest of the class headed straight for the gift shop while Charlie undertook a solitary exploration of his own. What did the others care that the man with white hair and whiskers was once a cabinet minister? Or that a frock-coated, stiff-backed toff once saved Britain from a trade crisis? Last to join the group at the entrance, he’d breathlessly exclaimed, ‘I got waylaid by the Bronte’s,’ wondering why everyone, including the teacher, burst out laughing.
But the portrait was a vital tool, sometimes the only record of a life lived. Captured for posterity, these canvases deserved far more than a cursory glance and a souvenir postcard.
‘So, what’s it to be?’ he asked himself. ‘A circuitous route or a direct hit?’ He compromised with a trip via the nineteenth century portraits, that way when he finally got to the painting, he’d be seeing it in context.
In the middle of the highly polished floor was a bank of computers where a woman sat consulting the interactive gallery guide; otherwise he had the picture to himself. Some argumentative part of him insisted, ‘keep your distance, don’t bother. Leave Harry Bramall to your imagination. Let him stay where he is.’ But this was a unique record of a bygone age, a rare illustration of the political landscape at that time. Search for him he must.
Secrets of the Past Page 10