by Jemma Harvey
‘Forged, then.’
‘Difficult. HG’s bound to have contacted the referees.’
Delphi looked frustrated and turned away, her notice claimed by Nigel just as Harry himself walked in to announce dinner.
I found myself sitting between Mortimer, who was still determined to find me sympathetic, and Ash, who wasn’t. Morty began to talk about the weather, which had shown signs of spring that day, and how we ought to do some filming of work in the garden while the sun shone, and Ash informed me coolly that if we weren’t using the old hall he was going to perform some tests there, measuring temperature changes and other factors relating to unexplained phenomena.
‘So if you record a sudden chill,’ I said, ‘that proves there’s a ghost around?’
‘Of course not.’ Ash chose to ignore my sceptical tone. ‘Evidence is never conclusive, but it can be suggestive. Besides, the public like the scientific approach, even though it’s largely irrelevant to genuine manifestations. People like your viewers feel much less credulous believing in something if there’s physical proof on offer.’
‘That seems logical to me.’
‘Ghosts have nothing to do with logic. That’s the trouble: you don’t trust your own feelings. You’ll believe in a thermometer which tells you it’s getting colder, or a glitch in the earth’s magnetic field, when you should have more faith in instinct and intuition. We were given those qualities to use them: unlike scientific knowledge, we’ve refined them over several millennia, yet we persist in doubting ourselves. We’re a species of one idea. We’ve discovered science, and now we want it to explain everything. Stupid.’
‘But you go along with it,’ I said. ‘After all, you’ve brought your thermometer.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s part of my job. Just not the important part.’
‘So the ghost-buster’s going into action,’ Alex said from across the table. ‘Does that mean there’ll be fluorescent green slime-monsters crawling out of the woodwork playing the bagpipes?’
‘I think it’s really exciting,’ Brie said. ‘The castle feels, like, so creepy – all that death and tragedy and stuff in the past, you can sort of sense it. Ash is right: you have to go with your intuition. I’m a very intuitive person about things like that.’
At this point an idea presented itself to me, so diabolical I could feel the smile spreading on the inside of my face.
‘We don’t really need you two tomorrow,’ I said to Brie and Alex. ‘Perhaps you’d like to help Ash with his experiments? I’m sure he could use some assistance.’
‘Brilliant!’ Alex said instantly. ‘I saw the movie when I was a kid: I’ve wanted to be a ghost-buster ever since. We’ll get the castle spooks by the short and curlies – if they have short and curlies.’
‘I work alone,’ Ash said. If there had been a thermometer anywhere in his vicinity the mercury would have dropped out of sight.
‘No man is an island,’ I declared. ‘Ask not for whom the bell tolls. We none of us walk alone.’
‘I said, I work alone . . .’
‘We’ll do whatever you say,’ Brie promised him. ‘I know we’ll be a big help. I’ve always been really sensitive to the supernatural.’
‘There you are,’ Alex said. ‘Brie’s sensitive, I’m a ghost-buster, and we’ll have Fenny. He’s such a clever puppy, I bet he can sniff out any spooks. Can’t you, honey-poo-poo?’ The dog, who was sitting in his lap being fed morsels of unsuitable food, peered hopefully over the edge of the table.
For the first time since I’d met him, Ash was losing his cool. ‘I honestly don’t think—’
‘I’ve got you three helpers for the day,’ I said brightly, assuming an expression of shining innocence. ‘Isn’t that great? You were talking about the importance of intuition – I’m sure Brie will be invaluable. And animals are much more tuned in to the paranormal than people.’ Hadn’t he told me something of the kind once?
‘Maybe.’ Ash spoke with a suggestion of clenched teeth. ‘However . . .’
But Alex and Brie, oblivious to his reaction, began to make enthusiastic plans. Watching Ash, I allowed the smile to transfer itself to the outside of my face. He might be able to handle teenage poltergeists and phantoms from the dark side of human nature, but I’d teach him to mess with me. In the cut-throat world of TV makeover shows, I was learning fast how to play dirty.
Thanks to my plot, the next day’s filming was relatively trouble-free. Even Delphi, out of period costume and back in presenter mode, seemed more relaxed, the only hitch occurring when she discovered her Matthew Williamson jacket was trimmed in real fur not fake. ‘I didn’t know!’ she wailed. ‘My image is supposed to be eco-friendly! I’ll have to find something else to wear –’ this could take hours – ‘and do the shoot again.’
‘It’s rabbit,’ I said desperately. ‘You said it’s okay if it’s rabbit.’
‘It’s awfully fluffy for rabbit . . .’
‘You get long-haired rabbits. It’s probably angora. You’ve heard the phrase fluffy bunny, haven’t you?’ The fur didn’t look at all rabbitty, but I had no intention of scrapping our morning’s work.
Russell came over to join in, looking irritated, met my gaze and backed off tactfully.
‘Supposing viewers don’t realise,’ Delphi was saying. ‘I’ve got a reputation to maintain. Perhaps we could put something in the credits. “Miss Dacres will only wear fur that has been . . . has been environmentally approved, such as sheepskin or rabbit. She does not wear endangered species or . . . or animals killed for their skin.”’
I was well aware that some rabbits are bred, and killed, for their fur, but didn’t say so. I was too busy visualising the lawsuit when Matthew Williamson objected to having his mink or chinchilla or whatever it was libelled as bunny. You walk a tightrope with environmental ethics, and it’s all too easy to fall off.
‘We can do something like that,’ I lied.
In the evening, when work was over, I fled to the kitchen to recuperate. It had become my regular retreat: Cedric’s quixotic unpleasantness meant the rest of the team avoided it, and I could always get a cup of tea, a quick snack (I invariably missed lunch) or alcoholic refreshment as required. This was a cup of tea day, with fruit soda bread on the side.
I swallowed violently when Ash came in, scalding my larynx. At the sight of me, his slim mouth clamped into a tight line and his elf-eyes glittered.
(I learned later he too used the kitchen as a haven, being on Cedric’s shortlist of approved visitors, though normally earlier in the day.)
‘I hope you’re pleased with yourself,’ he all but snarled at me. Elves don’t snarl, but he came close. ‘Thanks to you, today was a total waste of time.’
‘Rather yours than mine,’ I said cheerfully.
‘You employed those two: they’re your responsibility. You had no right to palm them off on me.’
‘We’re all supposed to be working together. If you were more of a team player—’
‘Well, I’m not. I’m not part of your team, in case you’ve forgotten. I work alone.’
I was getting sick of that phrase. ‘Who do you think you are – Garbo?’ I blazed. ‘You’re in a castle full of people, and you vant to be alern – is that it? So do I, but I’ve got a job to do, just like everybody here. We can’t afford to go around being supercool and above it all. You said I have no compassion, but you’re the one who goes around despising people, thinking you’re too grand and lofty to work with anyone else. It’s easy to meddle with the dead – they can’t answer back. If you had any humanity, any . . . any real kindness, you wouldn’t act like we’re all dirt.’ I was being unfair, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care what he thought any more.
‘Dear me,’ said Cedric. ‘Aren’t we in a tizz?’
Neither of us paid him any attention. Ash was frowning slightly. ‘Did I say that?’
‘Say what?’
‘That you had no compassion.’
‘Something like it. I don’t
remember the precise words. But if you think I give a damn what you said—’
‘I’m sorry.’ His gaze met mine. ‘That was unkind, and untrue. You do a difficult job and it seems to me you show a lot of patience with people who don’t always deserve it. More patience than I possess. I don’t know if that counts as compassion, but I shouldn’t have judged you when I hardly knew you. Sorry.’
‘Oh. Oh well – all right then.’ An apology you don’t expect, from someone who doesn’t seem the apologising kind, is always disconcerting.
‘But I still think that was an excessive revenge, dumping those two airheads on me.’
‘How about a cuppa?’ Cedric said. ‘If you’ve done having a go at each other. Or a drink. Looks to me like you need alcohol.’
‘Tea’s fine,’ said Ash. ‘Thanks.’
‘Much better with a slug of Scotch in it.’
‘Just tea.’
‘Alex is okay really,’ I said, feeling obliged to defend Delphi’s future husband. ‘He’s just not very . . . he’s not used to a work situation.’
‘He has the mentality of a fifteen-year-old,’ Ash said cuttingly. ‘An immature fifteen-year-old. As for Brie—’
‘Didn’t her intuition come in handy?’ I couldn’t resist it. ‘I was so sure it would.’
‘Oh, she intuited all over the place. Sinister vibes, past sorrows, hatred and murder – you name it, she sensed it. Towards the end, she even claimed she saw something – a shape in the shadows. She got quite worked up about it. It was growing dark, the hall was pretty gloomy: it was obviously apparition time. At least it means I won’t be saddled with her tomorrow. She managed to scare herself so much she’s through with intuition for a while.’
‘Bugger,’ I said. ‘The trouble is, neither of them have enough to do, and as they’re both staying here they’re permanently in the way.’
‘They could walk the dog,’ Ash suggested. ‘It would do them all good. And we’re surrounded by beautiful countryside.’
‘I don’t think they’re countryside people,’ I said.
‘You got to be careful out walking,’ Cedric interjected. ‘The mountains can be dangerous if you ain’t got a guide. Rough going, unpredictable weather – fogs and bogs, bogs and fogs. Jules and Sandy been up here a lot longer than me, they said two people got lost once, few years ago. One bloke fell in the mist, broke his leg. His mate went for help. The search party found the leg-break, got him out in the end, but the other – he vanished for good. They reckon he went into the loch. It’s treacherous going round some of the shoreline. Creeks and things. Or a bog got him.’
‘People always seem to be disappearing round here,’ I remarked. ‘If it isn’t the maze, it’s the bogs.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Ash said, dreamily contemplating the middle distance. ‘Let’s send Alex and the bimbo for a stroll.’
Cedric and I both laughed.
Chapter 6:
The Basilisk Effect
Delphinium
I’d been so preoccupied with my wedding plans and the problems thrown up by the series that I’d hardly given a thought to promoting Roo’s love life. When I’d originally proposed her involvement in The Lost Maze I’d hoped there would be some talent for her, someone to take her mind off Kyle Muldoon. Nigel was far too unattractive to fit the bill, Morty was just a standard lech, Russell had been faithfully married for umpteen years, HG, for all his glamour, was way too old, spotty Dorian (though less spotty now) was way too young, the natives were too native, and the psychic researcher, though ravishing in a slant-eyed, pixy-faced way, was far too pretty to be heterosexual. There remained the crew, including the Terrible Trio of sparks, cameraman, and sound, Mick, Dick and Nick, any extras who showed promise, and those locals on the civilised side of Scottish. It wasn’t an inspiring selection, and I couldn’t help thinking it was just as well none of them were queuing up, since nobody came up to the mark.
I suppose because I had so much on my mind it took me a while to realise I was wrong, at least about the queue. Though Nigel was fascinated by my dramatic imagination, I’d begun to notice a glint in Morty’s eye which had formerly glinted at me; Dorian, when home from school, was always dragging Roo off to confide his teenage woes; and even HG, when he emerged from seclusion, seemed to gravitate to her side. Mick, Dick and Nick were overheard speculating on her sexual talents, and Russell revealed that conversation in the Dirk and Sporran often turned on who she was shagging, and whether it was any of those present.
‘You think you’ve got sex appeal,’ Russell said to me, taking advantage of long association to get, frankly, much too personal, ‘but you lack the one quality which makes any woman irresistible. Ruthie, on the other hand, has it in abundance.’
‘What’s that?’ I obliged.
‘She’s a wonderful listener. We men are simple, self-centred, egotistical creatures: we love talking about ourselves. Any woman prepared to listen is going to have admirers clustering round her like wasps round a jam jar.’
He may have had a point, but I still think tits beat ears in the sex-appeal stakes any day of the week.
Anyway, being a good listener can get you into no end of trouble. There was Roo, providing a sympathetic audience to several inappropriate men, who sooner or later were going to take it the wrong way. Worst of all, I discovered she had taken to hanging out in the kitchen with the gays, and that was the thin end of the wedge. Before she knew it, she’d be a full-time fag hag, falling for men who were sexually out of bounds and having a child with some guy who wanted to give her his sperm in a teaspoon. Once she started down that route, she’d never have a normal relationship again.
I know it’s trendy to have a gay male friend (I’ve got a couple), but I don’t believe in overdoing it. Some women maintain it’s like having a male girlfriend, but I don’t go with that: a guy is always a guy, even if you change the middle letter. No matter how camp they sound, how interested they are in clothes and handbags and other men, there’ll always be testosterone in there somewhere. And testosterone is sneaky stuff. Even the nicest men have double standards, an inability to resist temptation, and a tendency to lie when they don’t like the shape of the truth. Different sexual orientation doesn’t change a thing. If a guy is really a girl inside, he’ll have the op.
I’d tried to discourage Roo from spending too much time with Cedric and Ash, but I wasn’t sure I was getting anywhere. Like I said, Roo can be really obstinate about all the wrong things. At least Ash wasn’t her type, otherwise I’d have worried she was developing an unrequited passion. Plenty of women at Dunblair did. The two village girls who came in to do the cleaning could be seen to swoon as he walked past, neurotic female extras tried to intrigue him with stories of ghost sightings, Makeup and Wardrobe fluttered when he was around. Brie, normally unimpressed by anyone without a celebrity profile, spent a day helping him take the temperature of the old hall and, according to Alex, who was there too, trying to intrigue him with her ghost-spotting skills. It wasn’t just his bone structure that hooked them: he had the cool green gaze of an absinthe cocktail and the aloof, disinterested manner of an elf at a football match. He wasn’t camp, but his looks, combined with a total indifference to all women except (presumably) dead ones, gave him away. Besides, I know a gay when I see one. I’m never wrong.
Roo’s love life would have to wait for more promising material, I decided.
Meanwhile, I still wasn’t convinced that Winkworth was the genuine article. I could hire a private detective to check his background, but I had no idea how you found a private detective to hire (Yellow Pages?), and anyhow, it felt like overkill. After all, he wasn’t my butler. Inspiration came to me in the bath. HG must have got him through an agency, and all these agencies were bound to know each other, the way people in the same field always do.
I rang the one in London through which I’d got Anna Maria. The woman who runs it knows me well, so she was eager to oblige.
‘I’ll ask around,’ she said. ‘G
ive me a couple of days.’
We’d done all the historical scenes except the ones with HG by the time she got back to me.
‘James Henry Winkworth,’ she said. ‘He’s with Acme Domestics. Very posh. One of the directors is an ex of mine, so I got all the gen. Winkworth’s been with an earl, a lord, and an industry baronet. Hot God, I suppose, counts as royalty. Meedja royalty, anyway. He pays better than the others. Winkworth had a choice when he took the job – he’s very sought-after. Could have gone to another aristo, or there was an American agency chasing him for a film producer in California. With that kind of pull, he must be the Admirable Crichton.’
I hadn’t a clue who he was, but in any case, I didn’t believe it.
‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘This guy’s no Jeeves, honestly. Maybe . . . maybe they paid off the real Winkworth and sent in a substitute.’
‘They?’
‘The tabloids. Whoever. Do you have a description of him?’
‘About six foot, medium build, fair hair, grey eyes. Works out.’
There was a gym at Dunblair – I’d used it twice so far – but I had no way of knowing if Winkworth frequented it.
‘I’ll swear he’s only five eleven,’ I said.
‘So he lied about his height. Men do sometimes: it’s an ego thing. They’ll add an inch on paper.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but usually on a different part of the body.’
She laughed. ‘He’s got a wife and two kids, if that’s any help. Have you seen them?’
‘What?’ The possibility that Winkworth might be married had never occurred to me. He didn’t act married. The idea unsettled me, for some reason. He didn’t give off a married vibe. ‘He can’t have. He lives in, and I’m sure he’s not hiding them anywhere. They’d be around – kids always are. I mean . . .’
‘Perhaps he’s left them in London. His home address is in Kensington. HG might have specified no family, though it would be unusual. Or perhaps Winkworth’s got divorced.’
My sudden jumpiness steadied. ‘I don’t believe any of it,’ I said. ‘He’s a fake – he’s got to be. The only thing is how to prove it.’