I went back up the steps and slipped a termer into his top pocket. When I left, he was sitting on the step, gazing blankly at the shoe he still held in his hand.
I walked out through the south cloister so that I could take a look at the Bishop's Palace. I walked over the bridge across to the massive gatehouse. A couple of swans were idling beneath the bell that used to ring when it was their mealtime.
I did feel manipulated, by everybody. And out of my depth. I looked up at the black sky. More rain soon. I walked back to the car in the cobbled square. Faye, in her orange anorak and black jeans, was leaning against it. She levered herself upright and waited for me to reach her.
"Thought it must be you," she said. "Can you give me a lift back? I came in with Buck but he's going to be here for hours
"Sure," I said. I looked at her strained face. "As long as you tell me what's going on.,,
"Nick, I can't talk."
"You can. I'm the guy you used to tell everything to." She looked at me as if trying to remember, an odd little smile on her face.
"Did l?" she said. "It's so long ago."
"Well, you did. Remember that long talk we had before we split. You told me your innermost secrets."
She turned her head away but nodded slowly.
"It's sort of linked to that-to that time, I mean."
I put my arm across her shoulder. She shivered.
"Can we sit in the car?"
When we were settled I looked at her.
"Well?"
"Nick, there's something you need to know. My brother disappeared some years ago."
"My God. What happened?"
"The thing about people disappearing is that you don't know what has happened, Nick."
"Of course. But you haven't seen or heard from him in all that time?"
She shook her head.
"He'd talked of going to Canada. At first when he left I kept thinking I'd seen him in different places. I hoped he would write but he never did. Then, after a while, I forgot to hope."
"So for all these years you haven't known if he's alive or dead."
She shook her head and looked at me. She seemed to be expecting me to ask her something.
"How long ago was this?"
"Fifteen years."
"When we split up?"
"Around that time, yes. But now I think I may know where he is."
"Well, that's great," I said.
She gave me an odd look.
"Hardly."
I was obviously being slow on the uptake. Then it clicked. "You think those other bones in Arthur's tomb ..."
"He was in the vicinity. He left his car at the gatehouse." I frowned.
"What are you thinking happened to him? An accident? Suicide?"
"Or murder?" she said, voicing my unspoken third option.
"But why?"
"I don't know why. Just a feeling."
"Can you remember the last time you saw him?"
"Of course. Your birthday. Friday the thirteenth."
"The day we split up," I said quietly.
She nodded.
"It will be well nigh impossible trying to track his movements that week after all this time."
"Don't you think I tried then? He just disappeared."
We said little on the drive back to Montacute. I dropped Faye off at the gatehouse and drove up to the main house. I walked round to the back and across the sodden lawn and into the boggy meadow beside the river. I sank into soft niud.
The earth seemed bloated with water. The light was failing rapidly and the absolute silence and the freezing wind seemed to separate me from our own time.
"Can't you see him?" a familiar voice called from across the river.
I looked across and he was standing under a tree about thirty yards away on the other side of the flooded fields, near a track that led over the hill northeast toward Glastonbury. The man I'd left behind in Wells only a couple of hours ago. He must have used my tenner to come straight here. But why?
"See who?"
"Ducks bellorum."
Puzzled, I looked at the swans gliding across the meadows.
"Arthur."
Ali. Dux bellorum. Arthur's sixth-century title of warlord. The man waved vaguely at the ground beside him. He didn't seem so wild-eyed now. "Bearded, muddy, savage, huddled with a small band of men in tattered cloaks around a smouldering rain-wet campfire." He seemed as if he could see them, as he spoke, his voice summoning them. "The wind beating at their backs, they look into the flames with tired, empty eyes. The resistance to the Saxon invasion. Brutal men with blood on their clothes and hunger in their bellies."
I nodded. He continued to stare at me.
"Are you often here?" I called.
"You mean did I see the Fair Maid of Astolet drift to Westminster?"
I started.
"She was rowed according to Malory," I said.
His face was split by a huge smile.
"That she was. Fair Elaine. She was a grand girl."
"You knew her?" I said.
"Knew her. Know you. Knew her secrets. Know yours."
He looked beyond me, saw something he didn't like, turned and started to shamble away. I looked round. Caught vague sight of someone stepping back at the side of the house. Turned back to him.
"Wait-can we talk some more?" I said.
He carried on walking.
"So did you see anything?" I shouted.
Without stopping, his head down, he thrust his right arm into the air and pointed at the sky.
"Signs and portents, for those who can read them."
I actually looked up at the sky-that's how desperate I was getting to find out what was going on.
"Great," I muttered as I watched him go. "That's all I need-an Old Testament prophet as a potential witness."
But witness to what? What had happened and where? The police had been back asking more questions, but I got the impression they thought it was a random attack by someone who happened to come across Lucy on the towpath. I decided not to share with them any serial killer theory. No point everybody thinking I was an idiot. They'd spent a couple of days examining the towpath-the bits that weren't flooded, that is-but I got the impression they hadn't come up with anything.
I climbed up the side of the motte and sat on a fragment of the old wall. The oars had gone-back to the boathouse, I presumed. Why had they been lying there, just below the motte? Was that where Lucy had been attacked and loaded into the boat? It was a part of the towpath that couldn't be seen from the house.
But what was she doing there in the first place? I looked at the chapel standing some thirty yards away in the lee of the mound. Perhaps she had come to examine the bones. She would have got the letter dating the three sets of bones on the morning of her death. It made sense that she would hurry over here. Did she go to Rex first?
I didn't think so. I got the impression that she had sent them for testing secretly, perhaps even against his wishes.
Rex had told me they weren't going to bother. I guessed he didn't want to know how old the bones were, probably felt it was better for the project if they weren't dated.
But perhaps Lucy felt she had to tell him? She was, after all, obsessively in love with him. And he was angry to discover that not only had she gone against his wishes but there was also this added complication of the third set of bones. Got so angry he-
No, that theory wouldn't fly. If he'd killed her, he'd hardly draw attention to the fact that she was obsessed with him by making explicit reference to the Fair Maid of Astolet. And, if my serial killer theory were to hold, why did he kill Askwith?
Anyway, I couldn't imagine Rex as a killer. He seemed too easy-going, too normal. I imagined somebody ruthless, somebody who also had a lot to lose. Somebody called Buck Buckhalter?
A thought struck me. How did I know that Lucy was obsessed with Rex? It was only on Faye's say-so and I suspected Faye wasn't being entirely open with me.
The sun was almost
gone now, the swans spectral figures gliding away downstream. I needed to talk to Bridget, my old amigo. But was she the same person I'd known and loved for all these years? I felt a twinge of jealousy about Rex. Why should I be jealous of a good-looking guy born with a silver spoon in his mouth worth £16 million who was bonking my best friend?
I grimaced. Was I sick in the head? I was pining for Faye, my first love who had broken my heart; lusting for Genevra, whom I couldn't keep my hands off; and getting jealous pangs about my best friend because she was sleeping with someone else. Still acting like a typical man, then.
When I came back into the house, Rex was standing in the doorway to a small room beside the main drawing room.
"Old stick, do come and have a stiff oneso to say." He ushered me into the room. "My little den," he said.
Some den. It was about twice the size ofmy flat in Shepherd's Bush. The ceiling was some forty feet above us. There were books on three walls, a large assemblage of photos, plaques, paintings, and other memorabilia on the fourth.
He mixed a couple of gin and tonics, passed one over. What the hell-I couldn't stop drinking forever. He sat down behind his desk and composed his face into a stern expression.
"So. How are you enjoying my sister?"
I blushed. Of course I blushed. But I was about to tell him to go screw himself when he grinned his gummy grin.
"Just joshing you, Nick. Wishing you two lots of happiness. She's great, isn't she?"
"One in a million," I said, face still burning.
"And she gets better the better you get to know her." He grinned again. "You know I have to admit to a bit of jealousy. Genevra and I have always been close. So close ..."
He had a curious expression on his face. I didn't know if he was giving me some kind of blessing or some kind of curse. I wondered if he'd had a head start on the drinking. I walked over to the wall of photos and other memorabilia.
"This Africa?" I said, pointing at a sepia photo of a group of men wearing creased linen suits and holding a range of hunting rifles. It was the black servants that gave it away.
"Grandfather was one of that Happy Valley lot in Kenya."
"The one who got off with Greta Scacchi in White Mischief?" I said, only half-succeeding in keeping the envy out of my voice. I've always had a thing about Greta.
"You mean the person Greta Scacchi played? No, actually. But he lived that lifestyle, frittering away our money."
"Our money?"
"Don't you know how it works? No, why would you? What's your background? I'm not asking for class reasons, old stick. Well, actually, I suppose I am."
I sat down again: "Working class, single parent."
"Well, I venture to suggest you have no sense of duty. This house ..." he waved his arm languidly to indicate, I guessed, Wynn House. "We hold it in trust. It's not ours. It's not a pleasure to be here, it's a responsibility."
"Yeah, I've heard that," I said cautiously, resisting the temptation to say I wouldn't mind that kind of responsibility. He seemed to guess what I was thinking.
"Don't imagine most people could handle it. I was raised for it. Trained for it. My entire upbringing was designed to prepare me for this ... this responsibility to the nation."
"What about the rock bands?"
Bridget had told me that Rex used to manage various rock and roll bands. He reached back and touched his ponytail, perhaps for him a tangible memory of those early days.
"We're all allowed youthful rebellion. But I always knew my responsibility lay to the nation. And so did my grandfather. In frittering away my inheritance, my grandfather was frittering away the nation's inheritance."
The temptation to put my finger down my throat was almost overwhelming.
"Look, Nick, I don't expect you to understand, but an independent, property-owning landed class was for centuries seen as the right and natural ruling class. But power and privilege bring duties, too."
"I can imagine. Or rather I can't. But I do know one thing. If I lived in this house I wouldn't turn it into a theme park. Why are you doing it? Is it just the money?"
He raised an eyebrow.
Just the money? Forgive me, but people who say that kind of thing usually don't have any. The tradition of opening great country houses for visits from the public goes back to the eighteenth century. However, this century the stately home is not enough. You need to give added value. The aristocratic pioneers knew that.
"The Marquess of Bath who opened Longleat to the public in 1949, introduced lions. Lord Montague of Beaulieu opened his house in 1952 and added his vintage car collection, while the Duke of Bedford, who opened Woburn Abbey in 1955, began a tradition of music festivals."
He hadn't answered my question but I had a more important one.
"Do you mind me asking whether you saw Lucy on the day she died?"
"I don't mind you asking but I don't understand why you're asking."
"I was just curious about her movements that day. I think she got a letter from the university about the dating of the bones that morning. I'm assuming she would have brought it to show you." I paused then added casually, "Or Buckhalter."
Rex frowned.
"I think you're going some way beyond your remit concerning yourself with Lucy's unfortunate death. My view is that she was attacked by some madman on the towpath. I also believe that the police are quite capable of investigating her death without any assistance from you." He got to his feet and walked over to the drinks cabinet. "Focus, if you will, please, Nick, on the question of Arthur's tomb. Nothing more." He held the in bottle out. "A top-up?"
That night, in bed with Genevra, when I'd got my breath back, I asked her about Rex's motives.
"Why is Rex doing this? He's worth millions, he doesn't need the money. Why is he fucking up his home to make a few more?"
"You can never be too rich or too thin," Genevra said, smiling and cupping her full breasts. "One out of two ain't bad."
"No, seriously," I said. "And if he is so rich, why does he need investors?"
"You never risk your own money, surely you know that," she said. "That's how you stay rich."
"Who are the investors?"
She suddenly sat up, breasts jiggling with the sudden notion-ay, Chihuahua!-and nipped my arm. Which hurt, actually.
"Listen, buster, when I invite you into my bed for a spot of rumpy-pumpy I don't expect to be quizzed about my family's finances, thanks all the same." She reached under the sheet. "If you can't think of anything else to talk about, put that to work instead."
It would have been churlish to refuse.
Two tall people making love can get complicated because of the need to get your long limbs sorted out. I don't want to give away her intimate secrets but Genevra liked to get her legs up and over my shoulders and cross them behind my neck.
"I usually do this on my own," I murmured.
"Pervert," she gasped. "Would you rather?"
"No, I mean-"
I would have said more but in a sudden paroxysm of excitement, she had locked her legs more tightly around my neck.
"Don't stop!" Her voice was suddenly very throaty.
"Hnngh," I gasped as the oxygen supply to my brain started to dwindle.
I did. Well, I couldn't breathe, dammit. She hid her disappointment well. Thinking, for some reason, of all-in wrestling's three falls and a submission, I was lying on my back taking deep breaths and discreetly massaging my crushed neck muscles when she nudged me and said:
"What do you mean, you usually do it on your own?"
"It's a yoga position: Uthitha kurmasana. You thread your legs back under your armpits and cross your ankles behind your head. I once saw-"
"Why?"
"Good question. I have no idea. I once saw a woman fall off a hotel roof while I was in that position. The surprise didn't do me any good. Although she didn't come out of it too well either. At all, in fact."
I looked down.
"What are you doing? I'm not one of those
five times a night guys-I don't think I'll be able to ... well, whaddya know?"
I had a feeling it went better this time.
"There's nothing impressive about five times a night,' she said a little later. "The guy to be impressed by is the one time a night guy." She gave a dirty chuckle. "All night."
Counts me out then.
"So did you and Faye ever fuck?"
"Genevra, that's private. I don't know that I know you well enough."
"You know me well enough to see my face when I
"You came?"
"Yes, what did you think all that huffing and puffing and moaning and groaning was about?"
"You came."
"Nick-are you serious? Was this the first time you've made a woman come?"
"Of course not. Don't be silly."
"So why have you got that daft grin on your face?"
"You weren't faking?"
"Of course I wasn't. Were you? Or was the impersonation of a singing budgerigar your normal response to orgasm?" My face must have dropped. She squeezed me. "Just kidding, Nick, just kidding."
She lifted her leg up in the air and flexed her foot. It was a lovely leg.
"We're orphans in the storm, you and I. Bridget told me your mum died when you were three. Mine did, too."
"Did your dad not marry again?"
"Oh yes, I had a stepmother. Camilla. Ghastly woman. Sold off our inheritance, almost destroyed this house renovating it and dressing it up boudoir style-pink ruche curtains everywhere. It was a relief when she cleared off."
"She abandoned you? Boy, you must have some issues around that."
Genevra reached up to kiss me on the cheek.
"I see you've been reading the right textbooks. Actually, all I felt was relief."
"Where did she go?"
"South America, I think."
"You don't know?"
"Never bothered to find out."
"And she's never been in touch?"
"No, thank Christ."
I got up bright and early-well, early, anyway-the next morning to do my yoga. As I was cooling off afterwards I looked out of my window and saw Rex crossing the meadows with Neville, the estate manager. Figuring that meant Bridget would be alone, I went down to her room.
The Once and Future Con Page 13